


Perfect Words

by wrendomfacts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1980's, AU, Complete, M/M, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrendomfacts/pseuds/wrendomfacts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I promised," He chides himself, tears whispering down his cheeks and splattering onto his ripped up shows below. "I promised myself I wouldn't try to fix you, but I didn't account for the possibility of you breaking me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are more than welcome! Thanks for reading!!

 

 

_"Blue was your look of shock when you walked through that door._

_It was the confusion in your face as you scanned the room._

_The panic, evident in your stride and demeanor, was also blue, even after you caught me watching._

_I'll give you a hint: my returning smirk and wink was not blue. That was more like a fiery orange, setting a part of the two of us ablaze._

_But you didn't know that at the time._

_I didn't know it._

_I wonder if you would've turned around and gone home if you had."_

_\-----------------------------------_

_\------------------------_

_\------------------------------------_

 

**December 1982**

 

Dean pushes through the crowd of sharp, human- shaped objects, a knee to a shin, an elbow to a face, careful not to spill the two drinks in his hands, held high over everyone's undulating bodies, moving towards the familiar head of hair he's been looking for the entire night.

"Benny!" He calls, angling his form towards the crush of about six people in the  very back corner of the room, right next to the bay window seat.

"Hey! Deano!" Benny flicks the leather jacket Dean's wearing and laughs. "Really going for the 'bad boy' vibe, are we?" Dean smirks.

"Hell yeah, man!" He hands one of the cups to Benny, keeping the other for himself, and leans back against the wall, surveying the other five people. Dean recognizes one of them as Benny's long time girl, Andrea Kormoso, and she smirks at him, flicking her black hair past the neon pink straps digging into her shoulders. Dean grins and goes for a wink, but before he can, Benny's fingertips are digging into his forearm, pulling him through a door he previously hadn't noticed. Benny's arm comes up around his shoulders.

 

"How's the party so far? You enjoying yourself, buddy?" Dean snorts.

"How could I not?" The party he's at is in the Lewis Katz School of Medicine at Temple. He's in the Alpha Tau Omega house, Benny's fraternity. The place itself is pretty historic- looking outside, all brick with large, white washed windows, eight in the front, six in the back, one big bay one popped out from the side and a kitchen add on from years ago. The inside, though, is a different story. The first room is the foyer, painted bright white with one neon purple accent wall, the very same wall that leads into the kitchen area on the left side of the home, completely wooden everything, and the bay window off to the side, dinning table situated perfectly under it. From there, you can either go through the sliding door into the deck or go around to the left again and wind up in a siting room, with a leather sofa, leather recliner... Pretty much leather anything, except the TV and coffee table. Then there's the set of stairs leading up, but that area's 'off limits' for partiers. Dean's stuffed into the foyer, and all he can see are the backs of hot and sweaty bodies draped in neon fabric that clings in unsavory places. Hair swirling through hands, people moon walking, and every so often, one really daring guy dropping and doing the worm.

 

"I mean, hot _damn._ "  Dean gestures to one of the girls on the floor, grinding dirty dancing style against a nerdy guy in blue. Dean tugs at the edge of his jacket, and flicks the collar up in the back, widening his stance from nonchalant to intimidating. He fingers his belt, also leather, and studded at the ends, feeling the reassuring bump of a lighter in his pocket.  Benny spins Dean's head, forcing him to face him. Benny's eyes are wide in shock, and Dean cocks his head. "What?"

 

"Hot _damn? Hot_ damn? Dean, are you feeling okay? Look around you!" Benny makes a wide gesture around himself. Dean follows his arm's arc, and watches the crowds of couples squished uncomfortably close together. Most of them have their eyes shut, butts moving into others, cha-chaing someone into a back corner. The girls are sweaty and kinda gross looking, hair sticking to the moisture all over their bodies. Their too-bright garments just make it worse, all that latex and cleavage jiggling around. The girl he'd pointed to seems like the nicest looking one, so Dean goes on the defense.

"What? She's the cutest one her-" But he's not even finished his sentence before Benny's laughing, and a hand is coming up to slap Dean's back. Dean feels his ears start to burn.

 

"Oh man, Deano. Do I have a girl to show you." Dean trails after Benny, and they end up walking into a spacious kitchen space, much less crowed than the foyer had been, and not as cigarette-smoke hazy as the other rooms are. All of the furniture is pale wood, including the cabinets and fridge. The counter-tops, on the other hand, are a beige marble, and one of them, the one facing out into the dinning area, currently has a _very_ pretty girl perched on it.

"Lisa!" Benny drops his arm from where it had been resting around Dean's shoulders, making Dean suddenly notice how cold he is.

"Benny." The girl, Lisa, purrs. Her dark brown hair is teased up to the top of her head, curled to within an inch of it's life. She's got this little tiny thing on, white and black, with bright pink fishnets and black stiletto boots. She crosses her legs, then uncrosses them, gaze flicking to Dean. "Who's your friend?" She murmurs, butt coming off of the counter as she crawls forwards, towards Dean. When she gets to the edge, she stops, and swings her legs down. She's too short to touch the ground. One of her hands snakes out and wraps itself around Dean's belt, pulling him in startling close to her. "He's cute," She scrunches up her nose when she says that, like she's looking at a kitten. Dean smirks at her, and jerks his hips in her hand. Her eyes widen, and for a second, he thinks disbelief passes across her face,but then it's gone, replaced by the cool sweetness that had been there before,  just with pinker cheeks.

"That's Dean. Thought you might like him." Benny cuts in. Dean tries his best not to look at her cleavage, practically spilling out of the top of her bra-let.

"Oh, I do." She purrs again, this time right next to Dean's ear. "Come on," She whispers, jumping off the counter but not letting his belt go. "Dance with me, cowboy."

 

Dean lets himself be dragged, crotch first, back into the hot and sweaty masses he'd been in earlier, but not before shooting a grin and a thumbs up to a rather shell shocked Benny, who just stands, mouth open. Yeah, he's had girls like Lisa before. Hell, he's had virtually _every_ girl in this room, but that's really because he's the coach of the soccer team. It's weird though. Something is different. Maybe it's the fact that she's so forward or dominating or just plain hot as fuck, Dean is infatuated, especially considering the view he has of her ass. She pulls him to the center of the dance floor, bodies pressing in on them from all sides.

"So Dean," She starts to shimmy a bit, swaying back and forth, just slightly off from the beat pulsing in the background. Dean holds her hips as she turns around so that her face is towards him, and she presses her nose into his neck. "What's a hot guy like you doing in a place like this? Alone?" She smirks at him and he fakes being humble, her fingers splaying across his chest even though she can't see him.

"Well, sweet thing," She giggles, and pulls her face back from Dean's jugular. Dean wills his dick to stay quiet. "I'm flattered. But really, I could ask you the same thing." The giggling dies down, and he immediately wishes he hadn't  said that. "But you know what?" Dean's fingers reach under her chin, and her eyes skip between his. "Neither of us are alone now, so I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?" The murmur barley moves her curls.

"You're funny Dean..." She trails off, still swaying, still staring. It takes Dean a moment, but he realizes what she's wordlessly asking for.

"Winchester," He replies, and she giggles again. 

 

"Lisa Winchester." She rolls the 'r'.  "I could get used to that."

 

Dean starts, practically falling backwards at her comment. _So that's what's different. She doesn't just want a one night stand. Oh fuck._  Lisa laughs, and playfully punches his arm. "I'm kidding, cowboy," _Thank god, because I really just want to fuck you._ She reaches out a lacquered hand, wrapping it around the back of Dean's neck, leaning into his chest. Dean's eyes flutter, and he feels his cheeks cool down as the blood u-turns and careens back towards his dick. He prays to whatever god is up there that Lisa's  _insanely_  high hair can hide it. She smells overwhelmingly like hairspray and shellac, a heady combination, and Dean bites his lip, trying to distract himself. He groans a bit, holding her tighter anyway, his own arms coming up and around her shoulders, hands wresting along her waist. A slow song starts, something old, by Elvis, and before he can say anything, Lisa's face is directly under his chin. The smell is so strong that it is all Dean can do to keep from cumming in his pants. He looks up again, just in time to catch Benny's grinning face disappear behind a column on the other side of the room. He flips him off in his head. Lisa wiggles against him, as though trying to find a comfortable position. 

"Squeeze my hips." She whispers. Dean goes blank for a second, and then consents, grabbing hard at the squishy part of her waist. "Yeah, cowboy. Like that." She digs her nails into his rather prominent hip bones, scratching them to the point where he growls a bit. She moves her head back and smiles up at him through her lashes. "That's it, baby. Make some noise." 

 

Dean's eyes snap up, searching for something out there in the crowd that could help him. That's when the front door opens. Dean has somehow ended up in the perfect position for seeing anyone and anything walk through that portal to the freezing outside world. It's also helping to keep his throbbing dick from chewing out from the inside of his pants. Sixteen or seventeen people have come and gone in the last half hour, but this time, this time, something's different. Instead of focusing on Lisa, he tries to pay attention to the heads surrounding the doorway.  That's when the girl struts in. There's no other word for the way she moves other than strut. Her hips sway, confident, as her commanding gaze sweeps the foyer in an arc. Her violently red hair is not teased up to the point of electrocution, but is swinging like a copper rope on one side of her head. She's in all leather. Full corset, short skirt, leather boots and to top it all off, neon red fishnets. She moves with an air of command, parting the drunk and drugged up kids to the side, making a beeline for the back corner of the room, where the bar's set up. She has her back to Dean, but he's fascinated still. It's Charlie. Dean smiles, proud, and stares after her.  _Now that counts as hot damn. Good job kiddo._ Neon purple fingernails snap in front of his face.

 

"Dean? Are you even listening to me?" 

"Yeah, I am baby, I just-" Lisa falls into Dean, and he tries to catch them by stepping backwards. He fails miserably and inadvertently crushes someone's foot with his boot.  He grunts in frustration, just as another cold blast of air is propelled into his boiling face. Again, his eyes go to the door, and this time, he does make a sound, as does most of the rest of the room. The D.J. is either preoccupied or very drunk, and doesn't stop the music. The Way You Look Tonight starts up and _Jesus this song is old_ , but Dean's attention is on the prettiest boy he's ever seen, walking through the door  just yards in front of him. His hair is disheveled at best, snow flakes clinging to the ends of it. The mystery man has his face down, but when he looks up, Dean really wishes he hadn't. Piercing, icy blue eyes shoot straight to him, lingering on his for just seconds, before he glances away and turns red. Dean laughs slightly. The boy shrugs out of his purple jacket and hands it off to a girl by the door, who puts a hand on his arm and says something, smiling. Dean thinks the kid tries to smile back, but it comes off as a grimace.  He glances back at Dean, and his eyes widen when he realizes that Dean hasn't stopped staring at him. _He's adorable._ The man is wearing blue jumper, green tie tucked into it, khakis and dark brow loafers. Dean quickly flashes his eyes back down to Lisa, but finds that she too is watching the boy. He blushes so red, Dean's almost positive he matches the Charlie's hair. The mystery boy moves off, blending in with the other bright colors so well that Dean actually loses sight of him.

 

"Oh my god. I can't believe he actually came." Dean flashes his eyes back down to Lisa's, and shakes his head, clearing some of the cobwebs. "Dean?" Dean refocuses, glazed over eyes scanning Lisa's face. She looks disgusted. 

"Yeah? Wait, why are you surprised he c-" 

"I can't believe you don't know who he is! Does the name 'Castiel' ring any bells?" Dean shakes his head, trying to to figure out where he's heard that before. _Soccer? No... Charlie? Maybe.._. _Cas_... He starts going through people who Benny has talked about: the weirdos, the sporty kids, the brainiacs-

"Wait. You don't mean Castiel? _The_ Castiel?" The room's volume is steadily increasing again.

"Yes, cowboy. God, he should watch his back around here." The last of the puzzle pieces click into place, and Dean gasps a bit, scanning the room again. He finds the top of his head in the corner of the room. Three big guys, from the team, are surrounding him, poking his arms, and the boy, _Cas,_ is shrinking in on himself. Dean lets go of Lisa and hears her indignant huff, but doesn't care, just starts shoving through people. Cas looks terrified, and Dean feels his older brother instinct kick in, as humans begin to part for him to walk through, shooting him distracted smiles between slow kissing. Castiel, the boy genius who could do calculus by age four. The boy who's parents exploited him in the early years of his life. The boy who's entire family was dead by the time he was fourteen. The gay boy who knew too much and had seen too much is being shoved into a hot and sweaty corner by guys that Dean coaches.

 

Dean reaches the group that has now gathered, catching bits and pieces of 'hey genus, explain this-' and 'you're worthless, you know that' spat from drunken lips. In hindsight, he doesn't know why he does it. Maybe he's tipsy. Maybe it's to impress Lisa. But for whatever reason, he finds himself pulling one of the guys, _is that Trevor? Yes it is-_ back from Castiel. 

"Lay off, man." Trevor's disbelief paints his face a light pink in the red pulses from the strobe lights at the DJ booth.

"Why?" But as Trevor squints, he seems to register who it is that has a hold on him, and within seconds, all the anger melts from his face. "Oh, oh god. Um, so--rry Dean, I mean coach, I mean, uh-" Trevor stumbles backwards in an attempt to get away from Dean, and crashes into two other guys.

"Leave him alone, Trev. Or I'll bench you for tryout season." The boy's face turns white at that, and Dean turns to help Castiel to his feet, confident that no one will bother them.

 

"Hey man-" But Castiel is gone. Dean stands straight, eyes skipping over the heads in the room, and has just enough time to catch a glimpse of black hair before it leaves the house. Dean starts pushing through the crowd again and blows past Lisa, feeling her nails rake against his sleeve, and he kicks himself for leaving like this. A hand on his bicep stops him just as he reaches the front door.

"Hey man! What'd you think of her?" A very obviously drunk Benny wobbles towards Dean, and Dean does his best not to look distracted.

"Yeah, she's, uh, she's great, but I uh, I have to go. Sorry man!"

"Whatever. Don't sweat it." Benny slaps him a bit too hard on the back, and Dean grunts internally. He jogs down the steps of the house and out onto the street, looking both ways before crossing. 

 

"Damn December." The day before, it had been 70 degrees and sunny. Now, snow is coming down hard, having really picked up it's pace, hail joining the mix, like invisible needles coming at Dean, and he tries to breathe as little as possible for fear of sucking the things in and slicing up his lungs. _Good lord, I should've lit a cigarette._

 

Dean glances down at his shoes, watching the cracks in the sidewalk to keep from tripping himself. He can see the spots where Castiel's feet came down. Dean flicks his eyes back up, only to find that Castiel has picked up his pace again, to the point where he's practically running. Dean sighs and does the same, snowflakes assaulting his eyes and nose. Castiel suddenly stops, heels skidding a bit before catching the asphalt, only to be knocked flat on the ground seconds later, Dean landing on top of him.  He makes a grab for something, spins out from under Dean, and proceeds to empty the entire container into Dean's eyes. "Ah! Fuck, man what the _hell_ is wrong with you?" _Pepper spray? Really?_

"Says you!" Castiel shoots back, the black clad figure having rolled over, curled in the fetal position. "You're the freak who's been following me!" Castiel holds the now empty bottle out in front of him like a gun, hand shaking violently.

"Freak? Nah, man. I'm the guy that just saved your ass. I wanted to see if you were okay."

 

Castiel's hand slowly falters, lowering to his side. "Sorry," He mutters, and stands back up, knees cracking. He glances down to see angry eyes staring up at him, now extremely bloodshot thanks to him, tears squeezing out of the rapidly swelling corners.

"Sorry ain't gonna cut it, man." The boy on the ground stands up and sways. To onlookers, it may have looked as though one man was helping another, slightly drunk, man. But to Castiel, the boy is purposefully off kilter, almost as though in a fighting stance. Castiel drinks in the appearance of the kid standing in front of him. Black leather jacket over a black shirt, definitely not warm enough for a night like this one, and black joggers. As his eyes travel farther downwards, his breath catches in his throat. The outline of his dick is visible in the glow of the dim street lamp. 

 

Castiel stumbles back with a tiny shout of surprise, tripping over his own feet and landing on his ass. The boy now towers over him, the smell of danger lingering in the air around his form. Dean sighs again, and reaches down a hand.

"I'm Dean, by the way." Castiel stares at the outstretched offer like it'll bite him, and Dean's laugh cuts through the quiet of snow falling. "Come on. It won't hurt." Castiel reluctantly brings up a hand so that Dean can pull him to his feet, which he does. Once Cas is standing, he realizes how close they actually are, and blushes, stepping back.

"So I guess I should say thank you." Castiel mutters, eyes trailing on the ground. A snort reaches his ears.

"That would be nice, but you don't have to." He feels tears threaten behind his eyes, and he sniffs, pinching the inside of his wrist. 

"Well then thanks. But I don't need your help."

 

"Oh, I highly doubt that." Castiel looks up at him in mild shock, confused. No popular person at this college has ever talked to him let alone actually been friendly towards him. Castiel feels a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, but stops himself, pain shooting through his face. Dean watches him, and frowns at this. "Hey, you okay? Did they hit you?" Castiel doesn't respond, just looks down at the ground. "I'll take that as a yes." Dean wraps his fingers around Castiel's and leads him over to the curb under the streetlight. From the horrible yellowish glow, Dean can just make out the lines of a new bruise starting to form on the corner of Castiel's left eye. "Jesus." He whispers, pads of his fingertips ghosting over the darkening skin. "They are so being benched."

"Benched? What does that mean?" Castiel's blue eyes widen at Dean. "You can't get them in trouble because of me. They'll only hate me more." For some unknown reason, Dean feels the urge to pull the kid in for a hug. Instead, he just leans forwards and examines the damage more closely, ignoring Castiel's question and answering plea. The bruising doesn't look like it's going to be that bad, granted Dean's used to injuries caused by hormonal, testosterone-pumped, adult males that get their feet to touch a ball, so normal bumps and bruises are never 'that bad' in comparison. But as Dean scans more of Castiel's terrified and twitching face, he starts to notice more subtle things.

 

There's a yellowing bruise roughly the size of a palm on Castiel''s chin, a split lip on one side on his face, and a cut on his eyebrow, barely healed.

"How often does that happen to you?"

"Does what happen to me?" Castiel feigns being dumb to avoid the answer. He can't lie. He doesn't know how.

"How often do my boys beat on you?" Castiel shrinks away from Dean at those words.

"Your boys?"

"Sorry, sorry." Dean shakes his head. "I'm the soccer coach. They're 'my boys', the one's that I have on my team, as my pupils, and I feel responsible for them and their actions. So I'll ask you again. How often?" Castiel mumbles something incoherent, and Dean groans. "You're killin' me man! How often?"

"Two, maybe three times a week."

 

And that pulls Dean up from his half sitting- half standing position. _Two to three times a week? Oh these guys are never playing again._

"Are they always the same guys?" Castiel nods. Dean rakes a hand through his hair, and the movement causes his shirt to ride up ever so slightly, exposing a thickly muscled strip of abdomen. Castiel shuts his eyes. "Did you ever tell anyone?"

"Who could I tell? Everyone would just laugh at me." Dean watches the top of Castiel's head, bowed under the light of the lamp, and swears for a second that there's a halo of sorts around it. He pities Castiel. The poor guy grew up so goddamn fast that he doesn't even know how the world works.

"I didn't laugh."

"You're different." Dean feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. He wills it away.

 

Castiel starts to stand,  swaying a bit as he does so, and Dean catches the underside of his right arm, keeping him balanced. "Thanks," Castiel mutters, but pulls it free, and Dean's hands fall to his sides, fingers twitching. "I'm gonna go now." 

"Wait." Dean feels his arms jerk in an aborted movement, and Castiel turns, eyeing him warily. "Cas.. Do you, you know, have a place to stay?"

"Yeah," Castiel glances at the ground, at the snow collecting around their feet, and nods. "Yeah, I do. Thanks though, Dean." And then he's gone, halfway down the sidewalk, running, and Dean scratches at the back of his head, cocky smirk playing around with his upper lip. _What a weird-ass guy. Weird, but cute._

 

 

 


	2. Pink

 

 

_"Pink was the pain in my left eye the morning I woke up._

_It was the stain on my fingertips when they pulled away from itching my stinging thigh, and my shocked gasps of air disintegrated into puffs of it, like feathers._

_Pink were the softening bruises blossoming all over my body, pulsing, tender to the touch._

_Pink left my vision as soon as I figured it out, confusion picked apart to leave room for anger and resentment."_

\--------------------------------------

\---------------------

\--------------------------------------

**April 1983**

Dean's alarm clock buzzes, and he stirs slightly, but doesn't open his eyes. He's caught in a dream. A bad one, and that's saying something for a guy like him. _"Hey coach! Take this one for the team!"_ Dream Dean flinches away, trying to move, escape, but he's backed into a corner.

 _"Guys, guys plea-_ The first slap wakes him up with a yelp, groggy and disoriented, tattooed with the marks from the night before. Dean is shaking, and slowly pulls his hands up from under the covers. His fingertips are bleeding. Tired, slightly fearful eyes flit around the room, taking in the discarded pants and button down, slightly open door and _broken window? What?_ He goes to push himself up to see a bit better, but finds that, within seconds, he's flat on his back and gasping in pain. Dean winces, and tries again, more slowly. This time, he makes it onto his elbows, but has to stop and catch his breath. By the time he's finally maneuvered his body into a sitting position, he's sweating, and straining to find something to keep him upright. Gritting his teeth, he steels himself and fully moves off the bed, standing, but shaking, his legs like jello.

"Fucking fantastic." He mutters, limping to the oblong mirror hanging on his dresser. Dean can feel the bruises pulsing on his back, and moves one shaking hand to touch his lip. _Split and bleeding. What the hell happened last night?_  He sighs. _Trevor._

 

Even though five solid months have passed since the day with Castiel, Trevor had decided that yesterday night would be the best night to come after Dean. _Not a bad idea._ Dean kicks himself for not locking his door last night. He presses fingertips into the bottom of his spine, forcing it to straighten, and shuffles slowly out of the room, and into his hallway. The spare bedroom is directly to his left, empty apart from a Hollywood bed frame and a mattress. He hasn't had anyone in there for years, and bites his cheek, trying to push out the memories of the last man who slept there, with sandpaper skin and a guitar made from feathers. Dean grimaces. His boxers swing low on his hips as he turns right, entering his living room. He can see the front door from here, and he can also see that it's wide open, and picks up his pace.

"Hey Dean!" He jumps, surprised, but there she is, in all her half naked glory. His 'across the hall' neighbor. Dean feels his shoulders start to rise in defense, but he wills them down.

"Hey Charlie. Saw you with that chick last night. How was that?" Charlie's childlike grin breaks across her face.

"Holy hell, man, she was-" Her eyes roll back in her head and close, and she clenches her fists. " _Wicked_." Dean tries his best to smile, but her face is swimming, being pulled in different directions as if made of water. "Hey, I saw those guys here last night. You okay? What did they want?"  When he doesn't respond with anything, Charlie opens her eyes. "Uh, Dean? You don't looks so hot-" But then he's falling forwards, hand slipping off the door jamb, and Charlie has about two seconds to try and catch him before he hits the ground. He's about three times her body weight, so instead, she drops, and he lands on top of her. She sighs, yelling through a mouthful of his shirt. "Dorothy! A little help here!"  
  


Charlie expertly navigates the small hallways in his apartment, a mirror image of her own, holding onto Dean's arms while Dorothy carries his feet.

"When you said second date," Dorothy mutters, blowing a lock of black hair out of her face. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind." Charlie smiles at her from behind the shag of Dean's hair, holding his arms higher.

"Me either, sweetheart." 

 

When he does finally come to, he feels something warm running down his back. 

"What the fuck," He slurs, trying to pull away.

"Dean, it's just me. I knew you'd want a girl who's totally not your type doing this to you, so I figured that'd be me."

"Uh, not my type may not have been the right words." Dean mutters, rubbing his eyes with the back of a wet- _wet?-_ hand. 

"Well hey, if you get hard, I'll jerk you off. Deal, Mr. Soccer Star?" Dean leans into her fingertips, pulling at the soft spots on his spine.

"Maybe not a star anymore." He can practically feel her head cocking to one side.

 

"Those boys do this to you?" Charlie whispers. Dean can feel a couple strands of her hair brush against his shoulder blades, and realizes that he's naked. In a tub. Being bathed by his neighbor. At this point, he can't really bring himself to care. 

"I think so. I can't-" Dean scratches his hip. "I can't remember that well."

Normally, he doesn't go out of his way to drink, mainly because if he comes to practice hungover, all the freshmen will know. Sure, he's twenty one, should be in college like the other boys, but... Dean also never goes to gay bars. Like ever. But yesterday was an exception. He remembers the whiskey, and the boy. Such a pretty boy, nice on the eyes. He'd gotten into a car with that boy, all paper white skin and inky eyes, blown wide with something. A rich kid, out to have some fun that he'd actually enjoy. He doesn't remember much of the sex, it's all just a blur of skin and sweat and cumming too early. He doesn't remember the kid leaving, but he does remember the crashing sound from down the hall. He remembers the screams of pain, the forceful punch that sealed the deal for him, and the hulking forms drunkenly swaying out the door with a last, pained look shot back at their coach, broken and beaten on the ground.

 

There had been some harsh words spoken between Trevor and Dean a few months before. Dean had benched him for the spring season, and had benched the other two guys, one new one and one from a while back, Zach something. Trevor had been livid. Dean can't really blame him, after all, it is that time of year where the professional leagues send scouts out, and Trev probably would've been picked had he not royally screwed himself months ago. 

 

Dean's 'boys' as he calls them know his life story. Dean likes to start out every season by telling the new kids about himself, that way there aren't too many questions. He's never been one for questions.  
  


 For the first four years of his life, everything had been white-picket-fence perfect. Mom and Dad so in love they were practically drowning in it, and a little brother on the way, in the heat of Lawrence, Kansas. They'd had a happy, normal life, one filled with fun day trips and good schools. Sammy was born, and he was just a bundle of sweetness. Mary doted on him hand and foot while John and Dean would play soccer in the back yard. He had a family. A future. 

 

Until November 2nd, 1966. Dean was sound asleep, having kissed his new baby brother on the forehead, and John had just finished reading him a bedtime story, covers tucked up under his chin. John closed the book as Dean's eyes slid shut and his breathing evened out. He stood up, placing a light kiss to his son's nose, and walked to his door, turning off the light with a smile. The firetruck nightlight in the corner glowed, and John sighed, happy and relaxed. He turned the knob so the click of the lock wouldn't wake Dean, and walked downstairs to watch a game. That's how he fell asleep, laid back, mouth open, knocked out in their recliner.

 

Nobody knew how it happened. One minute, the house was fine, the next, John was being forcibly ejected out of a sleepy haze, the screams of his wife echoing in his head.

"Mary!" He took off, taking the steps two at a time, and rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, barreling into Sam's nursery, where the sound had come from. Mary was leaning against the window. Something was staining the front of her nightgown. "Mary?" She held out a hand and tried to say something, dark liquid spilling from her lips. _Blood._ John made a desperate grab for his wife, but then there was a _snick_ of a lid being flipped, and sudden heat exploded behind him. Fire. Mary was obscured in the blast of white-hot light, and John blearily remembered Sam. He fell the two steps to his son's cradle, the baby now screaming in fear, and ducked through the door of his nursery.

"Daddy!" Dean. He was sleepy, rubbing his eyes in confusion and in an effort to clear away some of the smoke. John handed the baby to him.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" Dean just stood, shocked. "Now, Dean! Go!"

So he did. He ran down those steps as fast as his four year old legs would carry him. John turned around, searching for Mary in the orange flames, pinkish on the tips. "Mary!" He yelled, but the window she'd been leaning against was disintegrating. John knew. He turned tail and followed Dean down the steps, scooping the two boys up once they made it safely outside. He turned around just in time to see the nursery explode.

 

They bounced from motel to motel, city to city, for the rest of Dean's childhood. There were times when John would disappear for days, and come back with no money, just bruises and cuts littering his body. Dean would always be there to fix him up, and he never asked questions because he knew why. John was looking for Mary's killer. She obviously hadn't stabbed and lit herself on fire. Someone had done it to her. So John quit his job as a mechanic, and drove his kids around, searching. If he knew the trips were going to last longer than usual, he'd send them up to their uncle Bobby's to stay for a while, and he'd go off on his own. Normally, he'd come back. Normally, he'd be okay.

 

But there was one time, one insane chase, where he wasn't okay. 

 

He'd been gone for two weeks. One week longer than he'd originally said. To be honest, Dean wasn't too worried. Sometimes shit like that happened, when John would get a really good hit for a trail and forget he had kids back at The Sunrise Motel in Mississippi. That morning had gone like any other. Dean had made Sam breakfast, Lucky Charms this time, and had put on the cartoons for him. 

"Dean, I'm not three. I can go out with you today." Dean smirked, pulling on the leather jacket that he'd stolen from a thrift store. 

"I don't think so, buddy. You're only twelve."

"Yeah, and you're only sixteen!" Dean sighed.

"Just sit down and shut up. I'll be back in an hour."

But Dean hadn't even made it out the door when a car peeled into the parking lot. He pressed himself up against the wall next to their room door, and watched. The beater, made of scrapped together parts from other cars, parked not three feet from Dean, nearly running up and over the curb, even though there were plenty of other spaces available. He squinted, trying to make out the driver, but didn't have to do that for very long before a man fell out of the open door. "Bobby?" But he didn't answer, just walked to the other side of the car. "Bobby, what the-" But to answer, Bobby pulled on the passenger handle. An arm flopped out. Dean tried to take a wary step back, but was already too close to the wall.

 

"Help me." Bobby muttered, sticking his hands through the gap where the door had opened. Dean pushed off the wall and walked over, ready to turn tail and run if he had to. He caught a glimpse of Sam's face through the window of their room, and made a 'you're dead' gesture to him so that he'd back off.

"Help you with wh-"  
  


John. Dean had never seen him so malnourished and broken. Bobby stared at Dean, watching the poor kid process what he was seeing, before he spoke. 

"Don't know what happened. Got a call from your daddy last night, came out to his location, and found him chained up. The freak who got your mother must've gotten him too." Bobby watched as the air left Dean's chest. As he seemed to age ten years. "I- I don't think he's going to-"

"He will." Dean's voice was surprisingly strong, given the circumstances. "He will. He has to." Dean reached forwards and took hold of the upper part of John, much more light than usual. Bobby sighed, shook his head, and bent down, hoisting up his legs. The two of them backwards-shuffled until they reached Dean's room door, only about ten feet. Dean let go of one arm to knock, but before his fist was even balled, it was opening. Sam was there, shell shocked, staring at the dark patch on John's stomach. Dean didn't say anything, just drew his lips back in a tight line, and pushed his little brother aside.

 

They tried to save him. For three days, Bobby stayed with them and tried to nurse him back to health with spoon-feeding, drinking from straws, the whole nine yards, but none of it seemed to work. John just got progressively worse. He tried not to let it show, but the last night, when Dean was curled on the floor with a pillow and Sam was sound asleep in bed, Bobby saw him start to break. 

 

It began with a small whimper, and then John's head fell to his chest and his shoulders started to shake. Bobby stood up and walked to the side of his bed, kneeling down.

"John, it's okay. You can let go. The boys won't hate you for it."

"No, I can't." He said, through tear stiffened lips. "I can't leave them, Bobby. It'll kill them." Bobby's face turned down, teeth bared to keep himself from cracking.

"Do you want them to stay with me?" That was when Dean woke up. He didn't move a muscle, for fear of letting the other two adults know, just stayed absolutely silent, and listened.

"No." John tried to sit up straighter, and he gasped, feeling blood leak out from underneath the bandages holding his guts in. The sick bastard had tried to kill him the same way he'd done with Mary. _It'll probably work again._ "No, they can handle themselves." Bobby nodded, even though John couldn't see him.

John's breathing slowed down. "I think I see her, Bobby." He lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the far wall, empty apart from a picture of some mountains. Bobby just nodded, as though he saw 'her' too. "I think I see her." John's head turned and he smiled at Bobby, a tear slipping out of the corner of his eye. Bobby tried to smile back. "Tell them I l..." But he was gone.

 

Dean held in his sobs by biting through his lip, stomach clenching, his blood dripping onto the floor.

 

The next morning, Dean kept himself together for an hour. Just long enough to convince Bobby that he'd be okay, and that Sam would be okay. Sam, who, at that point, was hugging Dean's leg, trying not to cry. He sat on the edge of Sam's bed and stared straight forwards, steeling himself.

"We'll be fine, Bobby. Thanks for taking him home." Bobby nodded, scruffed Dean's hair, and hoisted John's body over his shoulder. He walked out the door, shutting it behind him. He'd find the nearest open field and burn him. That's how John'd want to go.

 

Dean hadn't even realized he'd gotten to his feet before little Sammy was catching him, keeping his head above the ground.

"Dean? Dean!" His vision had started to go funny around the edges, like someone had pulled a black lacy cloth over his eyes. "No, no, no. Dean. What do I do? Dean? Dean! Hey, what do I do?!" Dean remembers taking little twelve year old Sammy's face in his hands and bringing it close enough to him to see him, remembers telling him to pack his stuff and stop at the next motel he saw. That Dean would meet him there, he just needed a little time. He remembers Sammy crying and asking what he meant by 'a little', but Dean doesn't think he was really conscious at that point.

 

But when Dean made it to that motel, Sam wasn't there. In fact, Dean never saw Sam again. Not alive, anyway. 

 

Dean had only been on the streets for a year, looking for Sam, when the police found him. He was at a rest stop in Nevada, and an officer had gotten out of his cruiser, said something into his little walkie talkie, before slowly approaching Dean. 

"Son? Son," Dean'd made eye contact, but hadn't said anything. The officer, his badge read _Anders_ , was obviously very scared of him, and he cleared his throat, pulling a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. "Do you know anything about this?" Dean glanced down, and had to do a double take. His heart hit his shoes.

It was a note, apparently. And it had the names, details and lives of four people on it. Dean, with his name circled, Mary, John's, with theirs crossed out, and one more crossed out name- a person's photo was added to the mix. "Is this your brother, son?" Dean tried not to look.

"Why?" He whispered, and officer Anders sighed. 

"Just look at the picture, kid. That'll tell you why." The tears began even before he'd seen it. It was Sam, alright. He was laying behind a dumpster in Washington state, apparently. The description underneath read: _**Gender**_ _\- Male._ _ **Age**_ _\- Unknown._ _ **Height**_ _\- 6'1._ _ **Hair**_ _**Color**_ _\- Brown._ _ **Eye Color-**_ _Hazel._ _ **Name**_ _\- Unknown._ _ **Cause of Death**_ _\- Stab to the stomach._ _ **Description**_ _\- Strangled with a belt, raped and stabbed with a serrated  blade. Two broken ribs, one punctured lung, broken arm, burned with cigarettes, crushed trachea._ Dean'd handed the photo back to the man, and got up from the bar without looking back.

"Hey! Kid! Is he your brother?" Dean nodded and kept walking, but responded anyway. 

"His name is, was, Sam Winchester. And he was thirteen."  
  


It took Dean another year to get somewhere better. He hitched a ride from Cali to Wyoming. From Wyoming, he'd walked to Ohio, and then hitchhiked to Pennsylvania. That became his sanctuary, but there was always something missing. Sam. He'd gotten a job in a diner off Miner's Street in West Chester, got an apartment, met his neighbors, and scored a job as a soccer coach by faking his credentials.

 

Every year, he tells that to his 'boys', minus the fake credentials part. Every year. And yesterday had been the anniversary of Sam's death. Trevor had remembered that, and had decided to pay Dean a little visit, see if he could scare him into giving him his spot back. It hadn't worked. Trevor is now permanently off the team, for the rest of his time at U Penn.

 

Dean wouldn't have normally been so off his fighting game when Trevor burst through his door, but it was two in the morning, after a wild amount of sex, and he was still drunk. Thank god it was a Saturday, or else he would've been fucked when it came to coaching. He remembers the screams, Trevor and Zach and the other kid barreling into his room and the earsplitting sound of bone shattering when Dean had drunkenly swung at them, missing entirely and slamming his fist straight through the wall behind Trevor's head. He remembers the words shot like flaming spears through each other, echoes of 'You like him, don't you!' and 'Sammy would've loved to have seen this!' still ringing in Dean's ears. He doesn't remember passing out, just boxers on. He doesn't remember crawling to the bed to get in it. Everything goes black after the punch to his temple, which Charlie is now massaging lightly with her fingertips.  
  


"Hey," She murmurs, and presses slightly harder. He sniffs a bit and leans into her touch. "Thought I'd lost you for a second there." Dean thinks he feels a tear hit his nose.

"You kinda did," He mutters, and she laughs wetly, the vibrations pushing some of the droplets of water sticking to his head down his cheeks. She pulls back and continues washing his hair, the light in her eyes dying as she scans his face. "How bad is it?" He can't even make eye contact with her, not really sure he wants to know the answer.

"Don't know." She softly replies, not looking down from her scrubbing. "I'll have to get Dorothy to take a look at you after we're done. You want a bathrobe?" Dean nods and she stands, knees cracking, reaching around him to turn off the water. "Okay. But we gotta get you up first. This is probably gonna hurt like hell." Dean grimaces, but doesn't resist when Charlie bodily hoists him out of the tub to lean him against the far wall, next to the sink. Thankfully, the window on the 'bath wall' has the shades down, so no neighbors get to see the view Dean's pained and spread legs are providing. Charlie towels him down without a second thought or glance, then drapes a hot pink, bunny soft robe over him. 

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He glances own at himself in mild disgust.

"Shut up. It's mine, and you don't own one. I checked." Charlie lifts him again, bridal style this time, and Dean cries out a little, having no time to be embarrassed by it now. The short walk to his room is practically agony, but as soon as they're there and he can lie down, he relaxes a bit.

 

A young black haired girl has her hands on his dresser, and when the two of them come in, she starts, then spins, concern evident in her face.

"Good god, Dean. It looks like they nearly killed you." 

"Nice to meet you too." He smirks at her, and Charlie wraps an arm around her waist protectively, shooting him a glare.

"Dorothy's mine, man. Back off." Dean tries to hold his hands out in mock surrender, but finds he can't open either of them, and can only lift them about three inches without it being excruciating. 

"Okay. Let's see." She starts poking and prodding and after about ten minutes of nearly unending pain, she steps back, and surveys him with a worried expression. "Alright. Well," She drops her head in her hands. "Good news first or bad?"

"Bad." Dorothy sighs.

"One fractured rib, seven broken fingers, one sprained wrist, one dislocated hip, one dislocated shoulder, one dislocated elbow and a possible concussion."  
  


"And there's good news to this?"

"Well yeah, kind of. You get me to call a helper for you, since you won't be able to get around too easily."  Dean groans slightly. 

"And I'm guessing Charlie's already found one."

 

"Yup!"From the doorway, a _very_  familiar voice filters into the room.

"That's not- oh god." Dean turns to face the mystery man, and is met with bright blue eyes and jet black hair. The kids half smiles and does a bit of a wave. _Why did I ever tell Charlie about him?_ Dean shuts his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Red

I

 

_"Red was the feeling between anger and desire, that very first time you showed up to help._

_It was the traces you left on my body, spots that glowed and felt warm to the touch._

_When staring just wasn't enough anymore, it was the shade of the room, bathed in an evening glow through the red curtains._

_Touching your skin brought flames to mine, a heady mixture that burned neither hot nor cold, but somewhere in between."_

_\------------------------------------------------_

_\------------------------------_

_\------------------------------------------------_

**April 1983**

Dean can practically hear Charlie's smirk. The blush that's started to form on his cheeks deepens, and he hides his face in his pillow. "Well, I guess we'll just leave the two of you to it. Dorothy?" Dean doesn't need to look up to know the two of them have left the room. About one minute later, he hears the front door open and close. Fuck.

"Um," That damn voice again. Dean hasn't seen him in four months, since that day in December, but that _voice_... Someone sinks onto the edge of his bed, and he stiffens, biting his lip to the point of pain. "I'm guessing you don't remember me, but-"

 

"Don't remember you? Jesus, how stupid do you think I am?" The words are out of his mouth before he can pull them back, and he flushes red. Dean feels fingers pull his shirt so that he's in a sitting position. He tries not to cry out.

"Can you turn around?" Dean nods, forgetting about his broken knuckles, and puts his hand palm down on the bed. A little yelp of pain leaves his mouth, and he bites down on his tongue. A hand,  Dean's assuming it belongs to Cas, slips over his shoulder blade, and he flinches.

 

"This the bad one?" Cas half whispers, and then begins to press, completely ignoring what Dean had just said. Dean sinks his teeth into his lip as hard as dares, a nasty grimace cracking across his face. He tries not to cry as the pain in his arm builds, but a whimper escapes his pursed lips. Cas immediately stops rubbing."Dean, what happened?"

"Boys on the _team._ " Dean gasps, Cas' fingers pressing harder into the underside of his shoulder blade.

 

"Was that because of you helping me?" Dean stiffens.

"Kinda, but..." Cas' hands leave his back.

 

Dean can hear him start to cry.

"Hey-hey no, no don't- please-"

"I'm fine." Cas hiccups a half laugh, and Dean turns his head. Cas' face is flushed, nose and cheeks light pink, and Dean stares, transfixed. Cas tries for a smile when he catches Dean's eyes. He grins, bringing his hand up to his mouth in a downwards slide, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. Dean doesn't say anything, just stares.

 

"Has," Dean starts, then stops.

"Has what?" Cas mutters, lips swollen and salt worn.

"Forget it." Dean murmurs, and watches Cas cock his head, disappointment flashing across his face. He stands up, bed creaking.

"You want anything to eat?"

"Uh, um, n-no I'm good. Thanks though." He looks down at the sheets balled between his fists, embarrassment burning his cheeks, and prays to god that he doesn't say anything else stupid.

"Alright, well I'm gonna get something. Up we go." And before Dean can protest, he's being lifted, his entire body weight now held in Cas' arms, which don't even seem to be straining. _Holy fucking shit he's strong._

 

They walk about four feet, Cas angling Dean's body so none of him hits the door frame. Dean tries not to make any pained sounds, but that's kind of hard considering that Cas has gripped his broken fingers to keep a hold on him. "Where are you from?" Its completely out of the blue, and catches Dean so off guard that he actually laughs.

"Originally?"

"Yeah. You've got an accent." Dean smirks.

"Laurence, Kansas." He feels Cas nod. The hand holding his fingers tightens it's grip even more, and Dean feels his face twist. Apparently, Cas sees that, and immediately stops walking, pushing Dean's back into the door jamb.

 

"What hurts."

"Nothing!" Dean protests, squirming. He's never liked being held against his will, unless it's during sex, and this would be a _very_ bad time to get boner. They don't say anything for a minute, just resting in the middle of the hallway, Dean's room behind them, the spare one directly in front of them, and a doorway to their right. That's the doorway that they're supposed to go through, but Dean's not entirely sure they're going to make it that far. He vaguely remembers the man in the snow that night, scared and alone, but that is nothing like the man pressed against him now, staring and touching, asking if places hurt.

 

"Come on," Dean says softly, slurring a bit. "Let's get to the kitchen." Cas nods, and they start to move again, and the moment is lost.

"Are you sure you're certified to do this?" Dean asks with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. He's rewarded with a small grin.

"Certified? Sure. Cause that's totally how Sunflower found me. Through an agency."

"How do you know her nickname's Sunflower?" Cas shrugs, or shrugs as best he can. They're in the kitchen now, but Cas still hasn't put him down, which isn't that much of a surprise. His eating area takes 'cheap' to a whole new level. There's nothing but a dingy tile floor, two wooden counters in the shape of an L, a stove, a sink, and two wooden cabinets. Not much to be placed on. "Sorry for the, uh, lack of furniture." Dean mutters, going more red than he thought possible.

 

"It's better than my place." Cas gently lowers him onto the shorter counter island, then stands up. "Because I have a kitchen. And a place." Dean frowns at his back, spine plastered to a white, see-through button down. Cas turns slightly, and Dean just catches the underside of his ribs through the shirt. He nearly laughs. _This fucker has a tattoo. Seriously?_ Cas' pants hang low yet firm, and Dean thinks for the first time, that if someone asked him if he was gay, right then and there, he'd answer 'bitch I might be'. "What do you want to eat?" Dean scrambles to think of something to say that isn't 'your ass', but that's proving more difficult than he had hoped. 

 

Cas turns around, and freezes. He just stares, watching Dean, the way his collar bones are framed in the pink robe, the cut of it going so far up his thigh that Cas actually gets a slight view of the underside of Dean's ass. His tightly muscled legs are spread in an open, obscene gesture that has Cas sweating. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out. Dean grins, and does  a little hip shimmy, which really doesn't do Cas any favors.

"Enjoying the view?" He laughs.

"I'm just gonna-uh. Make something. You know." Dean smirks, and Cas turns back around, entire face red hot.  "I know I already asked this, but what do you want?" Dean shrugs, and relaxes back against the counter.

"Surprise me, motherfucker." Cas snorts. Dean smiles lightly. _I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes..._

 

"Dean? Dean!" He feels like he's drowning, but quickly comes to terms with the fact that no, he's crying. _What?_   "Hey, hey wake up! You're scaring me." He opens his eyes and is met with a very worried face. Cas' face. He'd been dreaming. _Oh, thank god._

"Wh-what happened?" Dean slurs, and Cas frowns. 

"Uh, I was massaging your back and we went to the kitchen to make something for lunch but you fell asleep on the counter island so I brought you back in here. You okay? You don't look too good..." But Dean can't even form words as to how relieved he is. He didn't see Mary's killer. He didn't hear the scream of John's for the second time in his life, through pain and blazing heat. Dean sighs, shaky, and can feel Cas' eyes on him as he tries to get his breathing back to a normal rate. Cas is watching him like a hawk, blue eyes turned slate gray in the red light- _red light?_

 

"Hey Cas? Why's the light, you know-" Dean gestures around himself, and Cas laughs, the worry lines around his eyes melting into crows feet.

"You didn't have any curtains, so... I improvised." He shrugs, and Dean looks behind him, to where-

"Where did you find satin bed sheets?" Cas smiles, sheepish.

"They were in the back of you linen closet." Cas scrubs the back of his neck, and Dean notices scrawls, like _scars?_ on the inside of his wrist. 

 

"You good, man?" Cas drops his hand quickly, averting his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Not wanting to pry, Dean drops it.

"What time is it?" 

"Nearly five." Cas responds, and Dean rubs a hand over his face, glancing longingly at the door. "Hey, do you want me to carry you to the living room again? We can watch something."

"Sure. Thanks." Dean says, turning back to face him. Cas doesn't meet his eyes, just stands, hunched slightly, and comes around to the back of Dean, lifting him so that he's standing on the tips of Cas' toes. From this position, Dean's nose is buried in Cas' shoulder, and it's all he can do to stay standing because _Jesus on a fucking boat, this guy smells good._ He can't quite pin point what it is; apple pie, wood smoke, a cozy night in a warm house as it's snowing like a bitch outside and home. _That's it._ He smells like home.

 

"Jump." He murmurs, and _God I'm straight but- oh, fuck it._ Dean  does as he's told, and is hoisted into the air, legs wrapping themselves around Cas' waist. Dean pulls his face back slightly in surprise, nose touching against Cas', and suddenly, Dean is struck with how pretty the man in front of him actually is. All baby blues and soft edges around the mouth. This close, Cas appears much younger, like he hasn't hit the age of eighteen yet, innocence more potent on his skin. Bathed in the soft light filtering through the windows, Cas looks like an angel, black pants and white shirt, slightly unbuttoned, and Dean just can't anymore. He normally only does this to girls, but _screw it._

"Castiel, I think I have to kiss you now." And Cas smiles like he'd known, he'd known Dean's resolve would be cracked by him.

"I think I wouldn't mind." 

 

Then the only sound in the bedroom are lips coming together with enough force that teeth collide and bodies crush closer to each other. Dean slides his tongue across Cas' lower lip from inside their entwined mouths and Cas growls, nipping at Dean's. He gasps and throws his head back, exposing a long, tan neck and part of a collar bone. The position they're in makes Dean acutely aware of the fact that he's still in a light pink fuzzy bathrobe, but he doesn't care. He just groans, long and low, and Cas responds, kissing his way out of Deans mouth and lightly biting the corner of his jaw, trailing harder bites down the side of his throat, until he reaches that protruding collar bone, and _wow, this guy is good with his tongue._  Cas stops, and licks against it, dipping his tongue into the crevice it forms with Dean's shoulder. Every sense is heightened, and Dean Winchester fucking _whimpers_ , canting his crotch against Cas' lower abs, which clench, and Cas stops his fervent mouthing to just gasp for breath against Dean's neck, now wet with saliva and covered in large, red marks. Dean looks down at Cas from his slightly elevated view, and almost loses it in his pants. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open just a bit, scrunching up against his nose like he's in agony, but Dean knows. Oh he _knows_ that's the opposite of agony.

 

"Ah, a _h._ I- _ah_ \- I need," Dean doesn't realize it's him saying it until he's spun, back pressed against the window in his room, the setting sun warming his already sweat drenched back. Cas' face is still pressed against Dean's neck, but his hands, oh his _hands_ are everywhere, tracing his body like it's the map to fucking lost treasure and if he finds it he's going to be rich as hell and oh _**god**_ , Dean is so whipped for this man. Cas has gotten one leg wedged in between Dean's, and Dean opens his wider like a fucking prostitute, but he doesn't care. All he wants is Cas closer, closer, _please god, I need him closer._ It's almost as though Cas can hear him, because suddenly it's his actual back against the window, not just the fuzzy pink bathrobe, and _thank fucking god_ _no one else lives here_ because the view they would be getting is not subtle. Forgetting the pain that bending his fingers is bringing him, Dean rakes a hand through Cas' hair, and yanks his head up, finally bringing their mouths back together, and this time he knows he's bitten through Cas' lips because red comes off when he pulls away, but Cas' eyes are blown so wide that Dean doesn't even think for a second that he should stop.  

 

"I'm going to take you against this window, where everyone can see. Understand me?" Cas whispers it in Dean's mouth, and he just about dies because _holy fucking shit, this shy guy has a nasty mouth and why the fuck am I loving it so much good lord_ , but has enough brain power left to nod frantically, and then Cas begins his work. It starts with Dean's bathrobe. That's gone in two seconds flat, hanging only so that the arms stay on. ' _Keep it,'_ Cas had whispered. ' _It does all sorts of nasty things to me.'_ Then Cas' pants, belt being tossed somewhere in the room behind them, his jeans only coming off to mid thigh, dick coming through the gap in his boxers. Dean pulls at Cas' shirt, pain long forgotten, until the button holes rip and buttons scatter like little pearls to either side of them. Dean's prep is short and sweet and not very note worthy, just standard. But what's to come, oh now _that_ is note worthy, for fucking sure. "On the count of three, okay?" Dean throws his head back against the window pane as his answer, and Cas takes a deep breath. "One,"

 

 And he's in. And Dean doesn't know what to do, so he opens his mouth so wide his jaw cracks, and he pulls his legs up as close to his chest as he can, and he grabs two handfuls of Cas' ass and just pushes. He pushes him until he can feel Cas everywhere, in him, outside of him, coating every inch of his boiling skin in little red marks, matching the color of the curtains perfectly. He drapes his legs over Cas' shoulders, leans back, and just let's himself go. It feels like he's on fire and freezing to death, and it's terrifying and liberating at the same time, and oh god he just wants it to go on for forever. Cas grinds his hips against Dean's pelvis, and Dean pushes him again, trying for deeper, more. Cas is scrunching his nose up with every movement, biting so hard into Dean's shoulder that he feels him break skin, but doesn't stop him. Instead, he eggs him on, shifting his hips in time with Cas.

 

Before Dean realizes what's happening, they're rolling, sliding off the window and taking the curtains with them and oh god, it's all so good. In the new position, Cas can get to where Dean wants him, and if he could speak, the only words out of mouth would be _my god, you are a prostate missile, you fucker._ Every shift sends white splashing across his field of vision and Cas is growling sweet nothings in his ear and Dean has his feet locked together, heels bumping against the last knob in Cas' spine.

"Cas," He whines, fisting the satin sheets under him, completely entangled in them to the point where they're probably in him, too. "Cas, I- I-" And within seconds, he's cumming harder and faster than he ever has before, even that time with Benny behind the bleachers when they were both high as kites. Cas doesn't even last one thrust, it's more like half of one. He leans his head back as his spine curls in an almost perfect C shape. _How appropriate._ Dean has himself propped up, body shaking with tiny aftershocks, watching Cas, but when he sees that, his elbows give out, and he's left just watching the ceiling. He cranes his neck just so, enabling him to see Cas' upper body. His mouth opens in what Dean thinks is a silent scream, but as he pays more attention, he realizes it's his name, being mouthed over and over again as if in silent prayer. Cas slumps forward, and Dean feels it, dripping and staining the sheets underneath him, no doubt.

 

It takes the two of them a minute to catch their breath, but once they do, Cas wheezes out a half laugh.

"You, you are incredible, Dean Winchester."

 

 

"What? **You** are incredible. Are you kidding? I had no idea what the _fuck_ I was doing! Plus, where did that some from?!" Cas laughs, and hangs his head, cheeks turning pink.

"I don't know. It's never been like that before." _Back to the shy kid. Holy fuck._ Cas looks away as best he can, seeing as how Dean is curled underneath.

"Hey, don't hide that face from me," Cas feels fingers on his chin as his eyes are met by Dean's, and he gets lost for a second, breath coming slowly and silently, both their mouths wide open. 

 

 

"I," Cas whispers, but is silenced by a finger to his lips. Dean watches as Cas lets his tongue slip out and over the tip, tasting it, and relishing the saltiness. He closes his eyes for point two seconds, and suddenly there's a mouth on his, and the two of them are kissing again, and oh lord, Dean could do this _all fucking day_. When they pull apart, more entangled than they had been previously, there's a thin line of spit connecting their tongues and Cas just about passes out. Dean rolls out from under Cas and onto his back, taking a long, deep breath.

 

"And you say you aren't incredible." Dean mummers. Cas grins up at the ceiling, then turns to Dean, and the smile grows even wider, to the point where it's practically splitting his face. Dean can't seem to look away from him, but knows he has to. "You want a beer?" He says softly, and tries pushing off the floor with his fingers. He doesn't get very far at all, falling back down with little pained gasps. Cas laughs a bit, and Dean twists his face in a way that he hopes passes for angry. He tries again, and this time manages to get both legs underneath him for a _very_ short moment. Then he's crashing down to the ground in a heap of sex- torn limbs and painful shouts. Cas smiles, then pokes his tangled form and receives a glare in return. "I'll crawl if I have to, fucker. Don't think I won't." To prove his point, Dean starts to move himself into a plank position, but then he's being lifted and pressed against a naked body.

 

"I'll help you." Cas says, and Dean smiles. The two of them move slowly through the house, Cas taking care to avoid dropped clothing, and then they're in the kitchen, and Cas sets Dean down on the counter he'd previously fallen asleep on. "They in the fridge?" He questions, and Dean nods, watching Cas' naked back. _I like this view._ Then they've got the beers and Cas is picking him up again and all Dean wants to do is melt against his chest, just become part of him, his body and soul, so that when he inevitably leaves, he'll remember Dean because Dean will have fucking _destroyed_ him. The two of them make it to the room and relax back on the carpet, cum still dripping out of Dean at a slow rate, leaving dark smears on the satin sheets underneath them. Cas cracks the first beer easily, and hands it to him. Dean grins in return, a muffled 'thanks' coming out from around the bottle that his lips are already wrapped around. 

 

Before long, bottle caps and glass are littering the ground. Dean is drunkenly tracing the tattooed words om Cas' chest, some language he doesn't understand, and Cas sits up straighter. "Hey Dean? I have a random question." Dean snorts, rolling Cas off of him, pain starting to seep back into his limbs. Cas is slurring his words, but in Dean's muddled state, he can't remember what that means about a person.

"What? Is this the Q and A section of aftercare?" Cas laughs, and Dean smiles. Then there's a hand in his, and when he turns his head, he's met with brightly lit, slightly sad eyes. They just stare at each other for a minute, then Cas sighs, and turns his head back to the ceiling. 

 

 

"What," He gestures in the air, and Dean collapses into a fit of giggles. "Hey, hey. I- I'm _trying_ to be serious," But then Cas loses it too, and it takes a full five minutes for the two of them to calm down, tears streaming down their faces, sides aching. "Wh-what color are your eyes?" All the funny air quickly evaporates, and Dean frowns at how sad Cas sounds, rubbing a little circle into the palm of his hand.

"Why do you ask?" Cas sniffs, and mutters something under his breath. "What?" Dean asks, and Cas sighs again.

"I'm colorblind." _Oh._ Dean turns his head to face the side of Cas', and notes his quivering lips. And suddenly Dean feels sober, his muddled brain becoming crystal clear again.

"Um, I can try and explain the color to you? Deal?" Cas nods, so Dean starts.   
  


 

"They're the color you see when you feel lucky, like you're the happiest guy in the world." He shakes his head. "Oh god, that sounds so conceited. Let me start again."

"No, no keep going. I like it."

"Um, the inside ring is like a fire, one hot enough to burn forests to the ground. They look like a fall night, golden air streaming down through the twilight trees, catching on the tips of your hair and ears as the leaves begin to slowly dry and change color. They're what you see when you look at the quilt your mother made for you all those winters ago, when the two of you were happy and content and everything was good. It's that Christmas night up in Vermont, the fireplace in that tiny cabin warm and bright, filling the room with the smell of cedar smoke and the soft creaking of the bed as you make love for the first time. They're adventure. They're life. Yeah. Life."

 

"What about mine?"

 

"Yours?"

 

"Yeah. Mine."

 

"They, they reflect the color that you see when he whispers to you for the first time and your heart freezes, shocked. They're happy and sad at the same time, the calm before the storm, the rough ocean waves mellowing into a tide pool the closer you get to the inside. They're love and hate and darkness and light. They're galaxies and stars and planets and inexplicable scientific anomalies that will forever ponder the human race. They could easily replace the sun with how brightly they shine, letting the universe seep in and dazzle everything they touch. They're the color of protection, of that spot that you sit at in the library when you need to be alone on a warm, rainy night and the streetlamps are sparkling off of the droplets. They're delicate and hard and wonderful. They're home, Cas. They're my home."

 

"You are the man of perfect words, you know that, Dean Winchester?" 

 

And Dean smiles. 

 

It's in that moment, in that second, that Castiel makes a promise to himself.

 

_You're definitely going to break my heart, and I'm definitely going to let you._   
  
  
  


 


	4. Ultraviolet

 

_"Ultraviolet was what I saw after squeezing my eyes shut, tiny, sparkling dots flowering out into my vision._

_When I picked up the phone and twisted the cord nervously around my fingers, it was my sweat, dripping neon down my back._

_The wind ripping my hair as the car sped down the Philly streets left it in it's wake, tendrils making a trail through the city._

_His machines, his life, beat with it, illuminating the dark and deathly silent room in different shades of ultraviolet."_

\--------------------------------------------

\-----------------------------------

\---------------------------------------------

**April 1983**

The call comes the mornings after. The phone starts to ring around eight, and it is so insistent that it actually wakes Dean up. He crawls out from under Cas'  arms and walks over to answer it, speech still slightly slurred.

"Can I help you?" Dean rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, pushing some of the salty sleepiness away from the corners.

"Are you the adopted son of Bobby Singer?" Dean's broken fingers slip om the receiver, and he winces, turning around to make sure he didn't wake Cas.

"Yeah, I am. Who wants to know?"

 

But all Dean registers are the words _hospital_ and _accident._ He hangs up, a whispered, _I'll be right there_ echoing across the empty line. He rushes back into his room, Cas just waking up on his floor. _Hospital_ and _Philly_ are the only two words he can manage, but Cas gets the picture. He folds and cleans up while Dean frantically grabs a black shirt, and two button ups, one navy and one greenish gray. Dean struggles into his jeans with his boots on, having put them on in reverse order, but not caring enough to slow down and change them. He pulls on his belt as the two of them practically run out the door.

"Get in the car," Dean grinds out, legs pumping down the stairs.

"You have a car?" Cas gasps, racing beside him. Dean takes the first curve in the stairs in stride, but Cas hits the wall, and slides sideways, towards the horribly rickety railing. Dean grabs his back and pulls him by the ends of his shirt down the rest of the steps, only letting go once they are outside. "Where is it?" Cas looks down for a second, looks up, and Dean is gone. "Dean?" No answer. "Dean!" Cas tugs haphazardly on his collared shirt, breathing picking up.

 

"Hey!" Cas looks over, Dean already leaning out the door of said car. Cas gives an appreciative whistle, low under his breath. The thing is a beauty, just plain gorgeous, a black '67 Impala, and Cas can't help but run his hand longingly across it's side. "Get in, damn it." Tears sit steady in Dean's eyes, and Cas does as he's told, hurrying to the other side, opening it. Dean swings himself back inside by one arm, and bends his black and blue fingers slightly to turn the keys, wheezing as he breathes. Cas winces. Before he can really think how frenzied Dean seems, they are flying. Or, what feels like flying. Cas has never been much of a risk taker, and he certainly doesn't want to start now, but Dean has to get there fast, and really, Cas would never out rightly object. The road whips past in a blur of honking horns and the gray scale of urbanization. Cas tightens his grip on his seat, and watches Dean out of the corner of his eye. He's got one hand on the steering wheel, the other pressed tightly to his side, a grimace cutting across his face. They speed through Plymouth Meeting, wind pushing through the open windows, pressing Cas' head backwards, so hard he thinks it might snap. It takes them half the time of driving safely would have. Dean has managed to swerve in and around almost every car on I-95, causing many pissed off drivers to lean out their windows and yell or curse, cigarettes dangling from business men's fingers, but Dean can't bring himself to give any kind of shit at this point.

 

"We're going to Penn!" He shouts, leaning over to Cas, lips pressing against his cheek, stubble biting into the cracked and chapped area on his mouth. Cas nods, and then they take a _very_ sharp right on a side street that Cas hadn't noticed. "Do you know where we're going?!"

"Yeah! This is, like, my spot, man!" As Dean begins to slow, Cas really gets the chance to look around.  Black trash bags litters the alley, dumpsters pressing against dingy barred windows. Small doors stick  out of the shadows, and window boxes reach like hands towards his clothing and hair as they slowly crawl by, Dean taking care to swerve around lumps of blankets and discarded shopping carts.

"Why's this 'your spot'? How can this possibly b-" Dean takes a left this time and takes off down another tiny street, going close to the speed they had been at on the highways. Cas clings on for dear life, nails digging into the seat even more.

 

"There's many things you don't know about me, Castiel!" Dean yells. _'Aint that the truth_.

 

"What street are we on?!"

"Pine! But we need to get to Addison! Hang on," He spins the wheel, and the car scrapes so close to the alley wall that Cas' head comes slightly out the window, hair brushing brick. And then they are on a wider road, and Cas is panting and shaking and ultraviolet spots are spinning in front of his vision. He registers a noise rising over the sound of his heart in his ears, and it takes him a second to realize it is Dean laughing.

 

"Jesus, man! How can you find this funny?" Dean just shakes his head and turns to over at Cas.

"Please don't call me 'man'. Your dick was in my ass less than twenty four hours ago."

 

They bump over a curb and up into a parking lot, and as soon as Cas notices the car actually stopping, the panic begins to set in again.

"Uh, Dean? Why are we here? Like really ." He is still gripping onto the seat with his hands, fingers digging little half moons out of the leather seat. The building looms in front of them, all brick and big windows. It is a pretty thing to look at, but Cas knows. Oh, he knows what it's really like in there. Dean swings himself out of the car in an arc, lifts himself off the seat gracefully, and walks to the other side, holding a hand out to Cas.

"I can't tell you just yet. But I promise, it's nothing too bad." Cas reaches out his shaking palm and Dean takes it, holding on tightly when Cas pretty much just falls off out of the car. Dean puts his arm around Cas' shoulders and walks him in, pushing the doors open. He quickly drops the gesture as soon as they enter the lobby, people milling around in circles. _So many people._ One woman is sitting by a window, holding a cloth to the head of a bleeding and crying child. The men in the corner are all crowded around another guy, bone poking thorough the edge of his arm. Dean takes Cas' elbow, breath hitching in muted pain, and calmly leads him through the sea of sick and injured people, up to the front of the room, where an exasperated, thirty- something secretary is standing, eyes staring blankly ahead.

 

"Can I help you?" She asks.

"Visitors for room 213. Singer, Robert. Might be under Bobby." Cas shoots him a quizzical look, but doesn't say anything.

"Are you family?"

"Yes. I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam." He gestures towards Cas, who does his best not to look totally caught off guard. "We're his nephews."

"Alright. You can head on up." The lady hands him a set of clip- on visitor passes, and waves them over to the door. Cas walks through first, but just as Dean is about to, a hand on his arm stops him. It's the woman. "I didn't want to say this in front of your little brother, but... We don't think he's going to make it past tonight. I am so sorry." She steps away, and Dean's heart begins to freeze, lips and fingers turning purple with anger. With guilt. He gives a curt nod in return, then pushes the door to the stairwell open.

 

Cas is waiting on the other side, propped up against the wall, eyes downcast and legs crossed. Dean knows that look all too well. That is the _I'm confused and kinda scared and I don't think I want to know, but in the same turn, I have to._ That look never means good things. It always leads to heartbreak and terror and bruised knuckles. Dean sighs and leans against the gray cinder blocks next to him, dropping his head in his hands.

"Go ahead. Ask. Question me. And hey, if you want to throw a punch, that's cool too." He sighs. "It's what they all do."

"First of all," Cas straightens, tugging the bottom of his button down. "I don't throw punches. Second of all, I'm not going to ask. I've been to hell and back, and believe me when I tell you, I do not give a shit as to why you're faking anything. I'm not that kind of person." Dean snorts, not disgusted per say, more like incredulous.

"Don't, Dean. You have no idea-" Cas stops, clenching his hand into that fist that Dean is so accustomed to. As if to see how far he can push him, Dean scoffs.

"Can't even hit me? That's sad."

 

A hand grips his shoulder and turns him around. Now the eyes that so captivate him are burning with something, but what that is, he has no idea. "I'm not kidding, Dean. I want to be here for you. I want, I _need_ to try and actually help someone.  Dean, I don't know what's happened to you, but I do know this: Whoever is up there definitely doesn't want to see you bottling this shit up.  So go, let it out on me."

Dean Winchester does not cry. Ever. But this time, he doesn't know how it happens, he breaks. He just breaks down, biting his lip to the point of blood, as he chokes back the sobs. He slides down the wall, to a very uncomfortable squatting position. "Holy crap." Cas says softly, and Dean hears the sound of dress slacks catching on concrete before there's and arm around his neck, and he's being tugged towards a warm, wash-worn button down. His fingers grasp at the material and he curls his hands into fists, pain in his hands distracting him from the pain in his head. "Who is this 'Robert' guy?"

"That's not his name," Dean's words are muddled, like he's stuffed his mouth with extremely dry tissue paper. "It's Bobby, not Robert." He takes a deep breath and releases Cas' now crumpled shirt. Dean brings his gaze up to Cas', and tears begin to fill his eyes again. "He's the only real father I ever had."

 

Bobby. How would Dean describe Bobby. He's a dick and he's rude as hell, but he's loyal, and loves him and, well, he _did_ love Sammy, when he was still around to be loved. Bobby was John's best friend, which seems strange now that Dean thinks about it. The two of them couldn't have been more different. John would disappear for days, whereas Bobby would take him out for a game of baseball. Bobby should've had his own kids, been a parent to a better person than Dean. But Bobby never had that chance.

 

At the age of twenty five, he married a woman named Karen. High school sweethearts, the two of them had stuck it out through thick and thin, until June 22, 1969. He spent the day in his auto shop, like he always had, and Karen had come home from work slightly early, walking into a seemingly empty house.

The screams had caught Bobby's attention.

He'd taken off across the junk yard of cars and discarded  parts, running in a flat sprint towards the noise. He got there too late. Karen was splayed out on the kitchen floor, six stab wounds bleeding onto the ground, creating a puddle around their dinning table. She was twenty eight. He'd noticed a fleeing form, and had stepped over Karen's lifeless form, tears dripping off his cheeks and adding to the splattered mess on the ground. He grabbed his shot gun from where it rested next to the back door, lined it up with the slumped man in the grass, only about ten yards away, and fired.

 

Bobby never talked about it, but Dean knew he'd buried the both of them himself, one in the Sioux Falls Cemetery and one in his backyard. He also doesn't mention that Karen had just come home from the doctor, with a letter saying that they were going to have a baby. A girl. But when Dean was very small, he'd found that letter, stained with bloody fingerprints, and had brought it to him with questioning eyes. That was the only time Bobby'd ever hit him.

 

Dean thinks back to one of the last times he actually saw Bobby. It'd been when he'd saved Dean's life, maybe nine years ago.

 

Normally, Dean could've taken care of Sammy and himself pretty well. The whispers at their 'new' school didn't bother him that much. Virtually everyone knew that if they slipped up or said something out of line about him, they could expect to be pulled behind the gym shed out back and beaten to a pulp. But that month was different. Normally, John would remember to pay the motel rent, and shit like that. But apparently, this time, he didn't. The knock on the door came seven days after they'd arrived. John had said he'd be back in three, and Dean had started stealing in order to feed Sam. He hand't eaten properly in two days. The woman who ran the motel said she felt bad for kicking out a couple of kids, but business was business.

 

Dean had called John at a payphone, told his message system what had happened, and that they'd be squatting in an empty model house for the new development being built across the street. It was May, in San Francisco. The house didn't have electricity, but that wasn't a huge problem. They'd gotten by with less. The biggest hindrance was that stealing food and water was becoming increasingly difficult. The shop owners had started to recognize him, and would call the cops before he even walked into the store.

 

They lasted three days. During the last two, Dean didn't go  to school, just watched for their dad to come back. The third day, he got up to fix Sammy something, but as soon as his feet touched the floor, his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground. He'd struggled onto his knees and had crawled to the kitchen part, _thank god, Sam's still asleep,_ and had used the counter to pull himself up. There had been no breakfast that day. Dean hadn't gone out the day before. Sam tried for a smile when he came in, Dean using both hands to keep himself upright.

"Drink today," Dean had rasped out, and as he watched the boy's backpack bob to the street corner then onto the bus, Dean had prayed a silent prayer. _Please god, let him come back before we die._

 

That night, they lay next to each other in the steaming darkness of a May night in San Francisco, taking deep breaths and trying not to close their eyes. There was no guarantee they'd open again if they did shut.

"Dean," Sammy had been ten at the time, and his high pitched voice filtered through the stifling dump of a house they were in. "Are we gonna die?" Dean remembers struggling onto his elbows and forcing a grin in the direction of the sound. He remembers opening his mouth to tell his little brother that no, of course they weren't going to die, but he couldn't even get the words out. A harsh gasp had come from the back of his throat, and something warm trickled down his chin. He felt the floor coming into contact with the back of his head, and his eyelids went from open all the way to half-mast in about three seconds. "Dean? Dean!" Sam's face swam in his vision, but was obscured by a sudden coughing fit, his spine arching off the ground with the force of it. He could feel something splattering out of his mouth, but was too weak to lift his arms. He opened his eyes wide, wheezing breathes puffing into the boiling air. Sam was still above him, but he had something all over his face, painting it a much darker color in the light of the moon outside. Sam brought his palm up in shock and wiped it across his cheek. "Dean, that's- that's blood!" But he hadn't heard any of it. Someone was standing behind Sam, off in the corner of the house, someone with blond hair and blue eyes in a white night dress and-

 

"Mom?" She came closer, smiling at him with open arms. He could vaguely feel his body lifting off the ground and smacking back down, almost like an epileptic seizure, but instead of crying out, he started to laugh. He remembers taking his mother's outstretched hand, and then overwhelming cold. Nothing really clicks after that.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Sweetie, can you hear me?" The beeping is really what woke him up in the first place. It sounded like seven thousand cars backing up at the same time. Running footsteps were next, and then _code blue, we have a code blue_. Dean sat straight up in bed, choking around a giant, plastic pipe lodged in his throat. His eyes shot to the IV tubes sticking out of of his left forearm. He reached with his right hand to yank them out, four in all, but was pushed firmly back down by a person in a white lab coat. He could see his heart monitor behind her as it spiked, and his vision started to turn purple. Sammy's little head had popped up behind the woman, and he'd immediately calmed enough to wheeze around the tube. The nurse reached forwards and unhooked it from around the back of his head, pulling it out of his throat.

"Where's my dad?" The nurse frowned, but turned to the door. A large form came in, hands in pockets and head turned down, baseball  cap resting there.

"Idjit." Dean's eyes opened wide.

 

"Bobby?" He'd walked closer to the bed, and Dean had leaned back against the pillow.

"Give us a minute, will you?" He directed it at the surprised nurse, but she gave a brisk nod and walked out of the room, door swinging shut behind her. Bobby brushed a hand across Dean's clammy forehead, the other resting on top of Sammy's, who'd gotten up to cling onto Bobby's leg.

 

"Where's-" A hacking cough broke off his sentence, and Bobby's worried frown deepened. Sam's little hand reached through the bars of the bed and took Dean's shaking fingers. "Where's John?" Dean's face was starting to burn from holding back choking.

"Don't worry about him right now, boy." Bobby's callused palm wiped across Dean's head again, removing some of the sweat.

Bobby shook his head. "You absolute idjit. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you _call_ me?" Dean didn't really know how to answer that one. The real reason was because he'd thought John would just come back. He always came back. It wasn't as if John didn't love his kids. He loved them more than anything in the world. Dean knew that. So he hadn't called Bobby. He was willing to tough it out. Dean opened his mouth and tried to say something, make up an excuse as Bobby stared down at him with one eyebrow cocked.

"I-"

Air must have gone down the wrong way. Dean didn't know what happened, but one second he was fine, the next, he was coughing, and Bobby was holding Sam's hand as he yelled down the hallway, presumably for help. But Dean's hearing was shot at that point. _"S_ _am,"_ Dean tried to say, but all that came out was strangled gurgle. His little brother turned to look up at him, eyes wide and fearful, Dean calling out to him in his head, no noise coming out of his mouth this time at all. _I'll just close my eyes for a sec-_

 

Dean came to exactly three hours later. There was a screaming match going on outside his hospital room. The tube was back in his throat, and Dean was thankful for that. It felt like his lungs might collapse. One voice was Bobby's, that much Dean could be sure of, but the other one sounded strangely like- "Da _d_ _,"_ He'd tried to say, choking slightly around the plastic. He worked himself into a sitting position, but couldn't get any further as the heart monitors next to him began to haywire, the beats jumping up and down at a too-fast pace, and he started to sweat, his vision clouding an ultraviolet hue to the room. Sam was suddenly by his side, but it sounded like he was yelling through water, Dean slowly sagged backwards as nurses ran in from the glowing portal of the outside. Everything goes black after that.

 

The third time Dean woke up, he was still in the bed, but it was morning. John was asleep in the chair by the door, head bowed in his hands. Sam was curled between his legs, and when he saw that Dean was awake, his eyes widened, and he pulled on John's pant leg.  John woke with a start, hands curling into fists reflexively. His gaze softened once it landed on his eldest son, and he stroked, with an absentminded pat to Sam's head.

"How you feeling, buddy?" Dean thought his dad looked like he'd been crying. But that was impossible. John Winchester never cried.

"Better." _The tube's gone._ His voice sounded like he'd  been gargling rusty nails, and John winced, like Dean had stabbed his upper arm.

"I-" But John just shook his head, cutting himself off. The two of them stared at each other for a tense moment, Sam flicking his eyes between them, before John cleared his throat. "Well, I'm closer then ever. We might actually be able to catch the bastard." Dean had sighed lightly, and relaxed back into the pillows. His heart monitor slowed.

"When do we leave." Dean thought he saw a guilty look flash across his father's face, but it was gone in an instant.

"I'm taking Sam today. You can catch up when you're better. We'll be in Nevada." Dean nodded, reserved, despite Sam's angry and panicked stare.

"Fine."

John had left and Dean had shut his eyes. He hadn't seen Bobby, standing just outside his room door, scowl so deep that it melted into his beard.

 

This is all Dean can think about as he and Cas burst into Bobby's room. Cas says something to Dean, but he doesn't hear him. He can't feel, can't think, and walks up to the bedside.

"Bobby?" He rasps, and, to his shock, the man opens his eyes. He smiles that old, tired smile of his and sighs.

 

"Idjit."

 

And then the heart monitor beeps and goes dead, the sound of flat-lining screaming through the room, or maybe that's Dean's voice as he sinks to his knees, dropping the lifeless hand of the man he should have called father  as the nurses pile in, much like that day when all this shit started, and Dean lets the ultraviolet waves consume him.

 


	5. Gray

 

 

" _Gray were my tears when the memories hit, like splashes of rain water on ladybug boots._

_It was there when your knocking woke me up, echoing through an empty house; an empty head._

_It took me forever to get that out of my body, somehow having stuck to my arteries and airways, clogging, choking and strangling me._

_You were in my veins, you fuck."_

_\--------------------------------------------------------------_

\------------------------------------

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 **August 1983**  


A knock on his door wakes him up. Dean rolls to one side of his bed, picking up his clock so that the chord drags across his pillow. _12:42_. _Fuck._

"Hey, Dean? It's me." The knocking continues. Dean resists the urge to rip his own ears off.

"Coming! I'm-" The bed-sheets wrap around the bottoms of his legs, tangling him up before he can even get out of the bed. "Fucking- Jesus, fucking shit on a fuck-"

"You okay in there?"

"Fine! I'm fucking fine, I just-" Dean shakes one naked leg free, soft dick folding into the inner crease of his thigh, and uses his foot to pull down the edge of the sheet on his other leg. "Finally,"  
A finger moves to pinch the bridge of his nose, rubbing for a second, and then Dean curls his abdomen and hoists himself up using his whole body.  


Thankfully, he doesn't have very far to go. Dean slips into the jeans that once fit him, but now smell and look like they've been dragged through mud. His legs are a little shaky, but better than most mornings, where he wakes up at three and has exactly thirty minutes to get to the U Penn field for pre-season practice. The bathroom is just across the hall, but when a person feels like they haven't properly slept in about five years, they tend to move a bit slower than most. Dean's toes catch on the end of an upturned piece of wooden floor, and he barely has the time to register an 'oh shit' before the ground his rising up to meet his cheek. Dean's wrist bends backwards, and he tries not to cry out. Instead, chewing on his tongue seems like a better option, so that's what he does, until he feels something warm and wet run down the back of his throat. Using the tips of his fingers, he pushes off the ground, spring-boarding himself upwards again, and he sways, woozy. One leg moves smoother than the other, but eventually, he does manage to make it to the bathroom.  
  
  


He can't even stand up. His knees give out as soon as his feet touch the cold tile, and he sinks to the ground. This is the only room in the whole fucking apartment where he let's himself break down. For a second or two, he just sits, staring blankly at the once-white wall in front of him. _Take your time,_ the college head master had said. _We don't want you working so hard you die, do we?_ Dean had done the appropriate thing and laughed through his tears, but on the inside, he'd thought _hey, maybe that's not such a bad idea after all._  


Three months. Three fucking months. Dean should be fine by now. He's, what, twenty two? He's a big boy. But nothing seems to have a point. Why try at life at all if people are just gonna end up dying from injures that had happened to them years ago. _He'll be fine._ That's what the hospital staff had all said when Bobby had gone in for head pain five months before the hell that is consuming Dean began. _It's just headaches. Nothing serious._ Well fuck that, because that sure as hell was wrong, now wasn't it. "Headaches my ass," He grumbles into his fist, lips barely moving to form the words. "Try brain damage. But yeah, headaches." He sniffs, rubs a hand down the side of his jeans, and knocks his head back against the door.  


He grits his teeth together, grinding them in the back so that pulp flakes off, and he's reminded that for the last two days, the only thing he's done is drink and play soccer. Pulling himself up using the doorknob takes most of the strength he actually has, and he sags against the sink, elbows buckling. Then he's crying, and it won't stop, and all he can do is feel. Flashes of memory pulse between blinks: a day at the beach- _Come on, boy! Get in the water with your brother!_ \- baseball- _No, that's not how it works. Cup your hands like this_ \- Sam's only birthday party- _That's my big boy! Look at that! Seven years old. Another seven'll be gone before you blink_ \- Then they stop, and Dean almost wishes that they would keep going. Anything to distract. Dean's left clinging onto the medicine cabinet, which he's somehow gotten open. Bobby'd been right about the 'seven years gone fast' thing, but he'd been wrong about the main part. Sam wouldn't be there to see it. It'd be Dean blinking, Dean's seven years gone, and with it, all the innocence that he'd accumulated in childhood. Ripped away from his heart, and his hands would reach out helplessly, trying to pull it back from the monster under the bed. That very same monster that now resides inside his head. He breathes in deeply, and shuts his eyes.  


_The first stage is denial._

He remembers hearing that come from the mouth of some lady at the hospital that day. She'd been nice. Tessa. That was her name, and she'd really tried to help him. She'd sat him down, talked to him, tried to comfort, but nothing she'd said or done had really helped. All the back touching and the light murmurs of ' _you'll be fine',_ and _'this is not the first time I've had to help someone like you'_. Looking back on it, he realizes he _was_ in denial, 'was' being the key word. He'd fully thought, for a few days, maybe, that Bobby would just somehow appear in his living room, totally fine, and with a bitch of a story to tell. That fantasy had passed quickly. He's not stupid enough to believe that Bobby's actually just holed up somewhere in Canada. He's a logical kid, and that's just purely _il_ logical. He'd watched that heart monitor flat line, he'd seen that last whoosh of air leave Bobby's body as his soul was washed out of him. He _knew_. He'd _seen._ So that stage was out.  


_The second stage is anger._

That one sounds a bit more probable, but not quite there. Evidence from _that_ part of grieving still lingers throughout his tiny apartment, shards of glass being the biggest problem. Two days after the funeral, it had started. The fighting between Charlie and him. Dean still tries to convince himself that Charlie had it coming, what with being so caring and pushy towards him, but that makes no sense, even to himself. He knows he's just trying to bargain with his brain, trying to trick it into thinking he wasn't an absolute dick for no real reason. The worst fight happened only about a month ago, after Charlie had stuck her head into his open apartment door to check up on him. Dean doesn't remember much. He was already drunk by that time.  


"Hey, Dean? Dean! You in here?" She'd shouted, not stepping into the apartment without permission, when Dean had come staggering around the corner in his living room. He took about three steps, and fell directly into the front of Charlie.

"I don't need you," He'd slurred, pushing off of Charlie's chest and accidentally spring-boarding himself onto his ass in the middle of the floor.

"Sure you don't."

That's as far as he can get in his memory. The rest is just yelling, crying, and then smashing beer bottles against the wall with the windows. After Charlie left, he'd collapsed into a heap. On top of that glass.  


Cas had come over in the early hours of the morning, something that had become regular, and found him.

"Whoa, easy tiger," He'd murmured when Dean had tried to stand up. "Stay right there." Cas had patched Dean up as best he could, not being able to take him to a hospital, seeing as how he only owns a bicycle. Dean hasn't seen Cas since. Anger's out. He's already gone through that one, that's for fucking sure.  
  


_The third is bargaining_.

This one Dean's sure he's out of. Thankfully. About two weeks ago, he'd gotten onto the roof of his apartment building. He still has no idea how he did it, just that one second, he was downing his sixth or seventh beer, and the next he was staggering onto the roof. The slate was slippery under bare feet, but he navigated over to the edge of it, and sat down, dangling his legs off the side.

"Beautiful, 'aint it?" He'd whispered, looking up at the stars. Tears had begun to pool on his eyes, his vision blurring.  
  


That was something Bobby used to say. After the news of Sam, he'd walked, from Nevada to North Dakota just to see him. He'd shown up at Bobby's front door tired, hungry, and desperate. That first night, he couldn't get to sleep. Instead, he walked over to the en suite bathroom, sitting down on the wooden floor.

"Why the hell did it have to be you?" Staring at his hands, he could almost see the last time he'd touched Sam shrinking from his fingertips. "Why not me?" _That wouldn't have been any great loss to the world._ He'd jerked his head up, slamming it against the doorjamb, then pushed himself off the ground, staggering the few inches to the sink. He'd stared down at the basin, turning on the water as hot as it could go, watching it swirl down the drain. Dean stood like that for a long time, purely contemplating why he shouldn't just off himself then and there.  
  


He'd started scrubbing his hands together, water so hot it burned, and Dean had never been one to cut himself, but right then? He wouldn't have cared enough to stop. His fingers were bleeding by the time he could actually turn off the tap. Dean glanced back up at the mirror, and had to do a double take. The bloated, distorted image of his tiny brother stared back at him. He'd shaken his head, knowing, even then, that it was only his imagination, but when he looked back up, it was still there. He'd stood, staring into the sink bottom. Dean'd scrunched up his nose, clenched his hands into fists, and slammed both of them into the mirror, shattering the image of Sam into hundreds of tiny shards. But he didn't stop there. No, he tore that room apart, breaking a lamp shade and one bed post, knocking down a chair and hurling an end table.

"What am I supposed to do, Sammy?" He'd kicked the door, his bare foot connecting with the bottom of the wood, splintering off the edge of the door itself, and it stuck into the top of his foot, toes curling under themselves and crunching. "What am I supposed to do?!" He'd collapsed to the ground, and just screamed. His entire body tensed, and he rocked. The person who heard him was Bobby, pushing the door to the bedroom open with a bang. He wasn't the most comforting of individuals, never had been, so instead of hugging him and quieting his sobs like a mother would, he just picked Dean up from under the arms, and practically dragged him outside, kicking and yelling. He had lay down on the grass in that back yard at two o'clock in the morning and had held Dean's hands as he cursed the world. Bobby didn't say a thing, just let him cry.  


It took about an hour. When he finally could inhale again, he couldn't feel anything, panicked breaths making little gray clouds in the air.

"Beautiful, 'aint it?" Bobby had whispered, staring at the sky. Dean had sniffled and nodded, turning his head to watch the stars move around in little circles. They didn't speak after that. Some time later, when the world was tinged with the sweet anticipation of a stunning North Dakota sunrise, Dean cuddled up next to Bobby, and fell asleep, wrapping an arm around his waist. He'd nuzzled into his chest, letting hot tears squeeze out from the edges of his eyes and stain Bobby's t-shirt. That's how they stayed until noon, when Bobby picked him up, carried him inside and sat him down at the kitchen table, making him a grilled cheese.  


That's what Dean wanted right then, perched on the edge of that roof. That kind of loving gesture. He needed it, so badly, and the only way he thought he could get it was by doing this. He scooted closer to the edge and glanced down, then lay backwards, and began to pray. He prayed about everything, anything, and the weirdest shit he possibly could think of. But the main thing he remembers asking for was for Bobby to come down from heaven and slap him around a bit, get some sense back into his head. He doesn't remember how long he stayed there, screaming up to the sky, into that empty, echoing abyss above him. Someone, somehow, made it up there with him, and pulled him backwards. Apparently, he'd stood up, and was teetering dangerously close to tipping over. They'd squeezed their arms around his chest, effectively trapping him. They'd ended up bringing him back to his apartment. He doesn't remember anything after that.

_The fourth stage is depression._

That one sounds right. That one sounds so right, Dean knows it is. His eyes open, and for a moment, everything is fuzzy, soft and almost comfortable. But then it fades, and he feels wetness trying to pulse from his tear ducts. Nothing comes out. He only cries once a day now, if he's lucky. He scrubs a hand down his face, shakes his head a bit and then stares at himself in the mirror. Instead of his usual attire, which is very layered and very heavy, extreme coverage, he's in basically nothing. No shirt, no boxers, just jeans. His eyes have no spark, no life left in them. Dean's barefoot, and wiggles his toes into the bathroom rug underneath them, catching the strands and tugging a bit. _Monkey toes!_ That's what Mary used to say when he'd grab at her earnings with his feet when he was a baby. It had always made him laugh. He doesn't laugh now. Hasn't in a long time. Pain flashes between his eyes, and he shuts them, gasping. He grips the sink harder, willing himself to believe that it's completely normal.  
  


"Come on, man. You'll be fine. Just gotta hold on... hold o _n-_ " His voice cracks, and his blood shot eyes begin to droop. Dean's elbows start to shake, and he takes a harsh breath through his nose, slamming his fist down on the sink's edge. "Fuck, fu _ck,_ " He drops to one arm and his stomach begins to turn. "I'm fine. I'm fine," He's choking on air, and he feels his ears turning red. Dean digs his fingernails into the palm of his right hand, trying to put some sense back into his swimming head. He takes another deep breath, jerks his head up, looking into the mirror again, and freezes.  


"Dean," The thing in that reflective piece of glass should not be able to speak. That thing is long dead. Dean opens and closes his mouth, no sound coming out. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is just a panic-induced illusion, but right now, it doesn't feel that way as his little brother's beaten and mangled face stares at him. He blearily feels his body folding backwards, but there's not much he can do except stare at Sam. "Dean, why didn't you help me? Where were you, Dean?" Sam's face begins to change, a mix of what he used to be and what he is now, a skeletal body inside a pine box in Potter's Field. Dean can distantly hear screaming, but thinks it's probably just imaginary. Then Sam begins to flicker, and suddenly he's replaced by memories, like snapshots, flitting across the mirror's shiny surface. A day at the park- _Dean, what're you looking at? Is there something on my face?-_ movie theater- _Shut up, Dean! Stop throwing popcorn at me!-_ and all of them focusing on one thing: Sam's face. _Is that really what I payed attention to all those years ago?_ But Dean doesn't have that much time to dwell on it as he distantly feels his head connect with the side of the bathtub. His vision starts to go gray around the edges, and then goes out entirely.  
  


Hours have gone by, judging by the darker light seeping into the slight gap between his closed eyelids. His eyebrow twitches, and then he pulls himself forwards, using his abdomen as leverage. "Ow, oh fuck. Ow." Dean cracks one eye, and then the other, sighing as he leans against the supporting wall. He winces, and knocks his head lightly backwards. That sends lightning bursts of pain down the base of skull, and he crumples forwards, arms coming up in the only real self defense pose he knows. Once he realizes no one's trying to hurt him, his hands fall to his lap, and he takes a deep, gasping breath. The entire bathroom is now bathed in the light of the early evening, golden sparks shooting off the doorknobs and sparkling through the window behind him. Dean's silhouette is burned on the ground, like a black cloud on a sunny day. He lets himself have the luxury of groaning as he stands, and stumbles to the sink again. "Damn, I need a drink," He murmurs, and scrubs a hand down his face.  


Another knock sounds.

"Dean, I swear to god-" The voice sounds much more exasperated than it did before, and Dean kicks himself for making the person wait this long _._ The voice keeps right on talking. "I guess I'm having a conversation with myself. Okay. Well then I guess I'd like to say that Dean Winchester is a goddamn dick who I haven't seen in weeks, but you know... apparently," A big, dramatic sigh filters through the door. "He doesn't care about me."

"I'm coming, good god." He turns away from the mirror and walks to the bathroom door, turning the knob in his sweaty hands, and he falls into the hallway, wandering to the living room. Paying no mind to the fact that he's mostly naked, Dean walks to the front door, holding onto the doorjambs for support.  


The chain latch gets stuck when he tries to undo it, but after a few minutes of stubbing his fingers against the metal, he finally gets it to fall, and the door swings inwards.

"Hey, Dean." Charlie is sitting with her back to him, hugging her knees.

"Hey, Charlie." She doesn't turn around, but her shoulders rise as if she's crying.  


"We have a problem, Dean." That's when her tear-stained face swivels to look at him, and he leans harder against the door.

"What happened."

"It's Cas, Dean. He's gone."

Dean feels his knees give out.

"What do you mean he's gone? Gone where? When?"

"I didn't know until today. Apparently he's relapsed, quit his job, the whole nine yards." _Good_ _god._  


"Relapsed on what? With what?"

"He didn't tell you?" She's standing now, hand on his upper arm, and tries for a smile. It breaks his heart. "Heroine, Dean. Heroine." He can't hear the rest of what she says, just feels a small piece of paper bite into his palm. Her lips pull back, forming words, and he nods as though he understands. She gives his shoulder one more squeeze, before turning and walking down the stairs.  
  


He glances down at his hand. _Underpass_ _. Broad-street._ The paper crumples and drops to the ground as Dean turns, intent on finding clothing, his keys, and Cas.  
  
  


Cas is sitting in an abandoned bus, hoodie pulled over his head, curled against the window. His shaking hand brings a spoon up to his lips, Chef Boyardee ravioli sliding off of it and into his mouth. He chews quietly, cup warming his freezing fingers, even though it's August. A cold front is moving in from Canada, and Cas doesn't have very many layers on. The ones he does have are torn and fraying. There's a small wooden box sitting in his lap, lid open slightly. _I shouldn't. I have a future. I'm in med school, for god sake!_ But he can't bring himself to give a damn. He can feel his scars catching on his jacket sleeve, and winces.  
  
  


"Pretty school boy my ass," He whispers to himself as he takes the lid all the way off the box, tipping it upside down, and shaking the contents onto his legs. Cas stares at the objects and grimaces, tears glistening in his eyes as he lifts his head to the bus ceiling. Different shapes, like haunted hands, dance across it, made from the setting sun streaming through the streaked windows. _Let this be it. I wouldn't mind going like this._ He stands, jacket sliding, and walks away, to the concrete pillar just outside the bus door. It's under an opening in the underpass, and afternoon summer light streams through it, black clouds on the horizon. Cas sinks down, fingers still playing around the syringe. _Seems like as good a place as any._  
  


Cas holds the syringe up to the golden light, illuminating the milky white powder in little, sparkling rivulets.

"Come here baby." The anticipation has him sweating, droplets rolling down his spine and seeping into the button down he's wearing and sticking to the t-shirt under it. His chest rises and falls softly as he rolls up his sleeve and presses the tip of the syringes needle into his upper arm. Cas' thumb pushes down the stopper, letting liquid euphoria flood his veins in the form of little white and gray tendrils. That's a habit he hasn't been able to kick. He keeps a small stash around, sort of as a 'break glass in case of emergency' kinda thing. So far, there hadn't been an emergency warranting that. Well, that is, until now. The landlord thing was just the push Cas had needed, and as he sits there, feeling conscious thought leaving his body, he doesn't care. He can hear the logical voice in the back of his mind screaming at him, telling him that he should've checked how much he was actually putting into his body, but then he can't hear it anymore, and the syringe slips from his numb fingers, falling to the ground as if in slow motion. It taps against the dirt lightly, bits of white powder floating into the air and settling onto his legs, which now he can no longer feel.  
  


This is what Dean stumbles on. He'd found his keys in a bowl next to the door, pain in his mind forgotten, and had thrown on a button down. He'd only been driving for ten minutes when it started to rain. The dark clouds had been moving in all day, but when the skies opened up, so did Dean's chest, and the panic started to set in. He kept the wheel straight, the car just above the speed limit, and got to the underpass in half an hour.

"Cas?" Nothing. The sound of the car seems to be scaring some of the homeless people cuddled in blankets, so Dean decides to park and get out. "Cas?"  
  


At seven thirty on August twenty third, Dean Winchester finds a lump of soaking wet clothing that happens to have a name, a life, head lolled back against the concrete, rain dripping through his hoody, a syringe discarded to his left, legs splayed wide open.

Dean's mouth opens in words not fully formed and falls to his knees. He takes Cas' shoulders, shaking them, slaps his cheeks, pulls on his legs, but nothing works. He lays just as still and cold and slightly more wet than he'd been before. So eventually, Dean just hugs him, face buried in the crook of Cas' neck, fingers tightening into the collar of his shirt as rain streams through his hair and dyes them gray.  
  


_The last stage is acceptance._

 


	6. Brown

 

 _"_ _Brown was your skin that day; I guess you hadn't showered in a while._

_It was my empty breaths as I held you close and cried, praying for you not to go._

_Anything but you going._

_It was my voice as I sang to you, those slow words drifting over your body._

_I'm not sure if you remember that; you were almost comatose by then._ _"_

_\------------------------------------------------------_

_\--------------------------------------_

_\-------------------------------------------------------_

**August 1983**

Dean's coat slips from his hand, the echo of Cas' name dying on his lips. Shock freezes his bones in place for a second or two before his body seems to fracture, leaving the smashed remains of the man he was when he first walked over, behind him on the ground. He can't feel his feet flying across the muddy earth, soaked from the rain, but he does feel, distantly, when his knees slam down in front of Cas. Dean's frenzied gaze arcs his body, stopping on a sparkling object lying next to Cas. Dean's shaking hands pick it up.

A syringe. His trembling fingers turn it around, small white rivers moving through it, dyed brown in the fading light seeping through the heavy clouds. Dean has the terrible feeling that the rest of this substance is making it's way through Cas' veins and blood stream.

_Cas is in some sort of alter-dimension, not quite dead, but getting there. He can sort of see Dean as he start to tip Cas' head back, but that just transports Cas into memories of his brother, memories he never wanted to touch again. Gabe! Stay with me, man! Please, god, stay with me..._

Dean tilts Cas' head back, placing his fingers under his nose, searching for breath. When he doesn't find any, he releases a sigh, almost like a pained whimper, and tugs Cas down and onto the ground in front of him, so that he's no longer leaning against the pillar. Dean lays Cas' arms out on either side of his still body, rolls his own sleeves up, and presses into the center of Cas' rib cage _. Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty_. He opens Cas' mouth with his hand, making sure his esophagus is clear, before he presses his lips to Cas', holding his nose closed with three fingers. Two breaths into his body, and nothing in return, so he tries again, repeats the entire cycle, but it doesn't work. He stands, delirium starting to seep through his normally controlled physique.  


"Phone, phone, where's my goddamn-" Dean rakes his fingers through his hair, patting down his pockets for the familiar lump. He finally finds it in his pants, and breathes a sigh of muted relief. _Thank god._

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Uh, I don't really, um..." Dean glances at Cas' splayed form, tears threatening, and takes a deep breath. The ringing in his ears is nearly overpowering, but he manages to gasp out, "Heroine. A, uh, a heroine overdose. He's my- my friend. Please, hurry."

"Alright, sir, just stay calm. What's your location?"  


Dean stands above him, stricken eyes skipping around the slowly darkening underpass again with a more fervent urgency, desperately searching for anything for his brain to hold on to.

"Sir? Are you still there, sir?" _The operator. Right._

"I, uh, yeah... oh my god, do something, please. Tell me you guys are on your way."

"An ambulance has just been dispatched and is driving to your location now. It should only be about four minutes. Stay on the line with me, sir." But Dean doesn't hear her. The cell drops to the ground, and Dean gasps, taken back to the day with his dad all those years ago. Dean can't stand it anymore.

He drags his hands through his hair, yanking on the ends with enough power that strands come lose in his fingers, and pulls his head back to the point where it's painful. He spins, ends of his jacket-turned-shirt raising in the wind. Tears begin to pool in his eyes, and he lets them come, streaming down his face as he breaks down, walls crashing in around him. Dean staggers to the opening in the concrete in front of him, dropping his hands to the ledge and squeezing tightly. It actually helps some, the bite of rock in the palm of his hand a welcome relief from the chaos spinning through his head. He takes a deep breath and turns back to Cas. What feels like hours has probably been only a minute, but as he studies Cas' face, he's not so sure.  


He looks dead. Like really dead. There's no pink in his cheeks, no rise and fall of his chest, no twitch in his legs, and then suddenly, he's getting much closer to him, and Dean blearily realizes it's because he's falling, the dirt hitting his kneecaps only seconds later. Laying there, on the cold ground, Dean can almost pretend that everything is normal, that Cas is just... No, he can't, actually. And he cries, no sound leaving his mouth and body, just little, angry gasps and wrenching pain, like someone's got a knife inside his chest cavity and is twisting.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, crumpled, but apparently it takes three of four minutes because he's being pulled backwards by a man in an EMT uniform without warning, and it's like Dean's entire world is being raked along with him, scattering bits and pieces of his conscious thought all over the area like ripped up leaves. He doesn't realize he's screaming, one continuous shout, until a woman comes over to tell his that everything's going to be alright, hands moving quickly in front of his face, trying to calm him down. Dean isn't having any of it, instead tries to push past the lady, arms reaching out for Cas, but then the paramedics are lifting him, and laying him out on a stretcher, one hand dangling uselessly off the edge of it, and the fingertips brush Dean's, cold, and rock solid. The woman garbs Dean around his waist, and tackles him to the ground.  


" _Cas!"_

_Cas can hear, but can't pinpoint, just knows that someone is out there, someone managed to get to the underpass and find him,and the first thing he thinks is 'shit'. He wants to move, really does, but can't, and then there's black lace creeping into his vision, and he's enveloped in it. He doesn't fight it, just let's himself be washed down the river of dreams and nonsense. Nothing makes sense anymore, just grays and whites in a stream of unconscious thought._

"Do you want to ride with him? Sir? Do you want to get in the ambulance, sir?" Dean comes back to reality slowly, like a fish that's just been dumped into a freezing bowl of water. A small Asian boy is staring at him quizzically, head tilted to the right ever so slightly, a line crunched between his eyebrows, and Dean starts a bit. This kid can't be over sixteen, tops, and here he is, an IV draped around his arm, the word PARAMEDIC emblazoned across his front.

"Yeah, uh, yeah," He squints at the name tag embroidered in yellow thread on his green breast pocket. _Kevin T._ "Thanks, Kevin." The boy nods, and takes him by the elbow, strides about two times as long as they should logically be, and Dean has trouble keeping up, tripping over discarded trash bags and shopping carts. The homeless had all scattered once the sirens had been heard. He lets himself be led.

_It seems that in this weird, in between state, Cas keeps flitting around in real life or memories. This one just happens to be the latter._

_"_ _Whoa, easy tiger." That's what he'd said to Dean the last time he'd seen him. Dean'd already been completely shitfaced, laying in a pile of broken beer bottles, and had tried to stand up as soon as he saw Cas._

_"Why are you here," He'd slurred, and had swayed, legs in danger of giving out. Cas had ignored that question, and moved further inside, hands outstretched._

_"Come on, Dean. Sit down," Cas had muttered, and Dean, in his stupefied state, had actually done it, easing himself back onto the glass. Cas could already see, even from several feet away, that Dean was going to need stitches. "Good job. Mind if I join you?" Dean made a 'why the hell not' gesture, scooting over on the glass. Cas winced. It was like he didn't even know it was there. Cas decided it'd be best for the both of them if he didn't sit directly on the glass, so instead, he puled over a chair from the sparsely furnished living room, and parked himself in that, chin in his hands._

_"Do you want to talk about it?"_

_"No." Dean had been staring at his hands when he'd said that._

_"Okay. That's fine. Can I..." Cas made a vague hand gesture. "See your arms?" Dean shrugged, but held them out willingly, whiter side up._

_It was worse than he'd originally assumed, and that was saying something. It looked as though Dean had slipped and fallen, tiny shards of beer bottles poking through the thin skin in his wrists. Cas guessed that he probably hadn't felt any pain, because then the lines got deeper and more pronounced, almost as if he'd been trying to dig out the glass himself. Cas sighed."First aid kit?"_

_"Kitchen." Dean muttered, and pointed vaguely off into the darkness to his left. Cas stood, a little begrudgingly, and moved in the direction of the shaking finger. It took him over ten minutes, but eventually he'd found it, hidden in the back of a cabinet drawer._

_"Dean, I'm going to stitch you up now, okay?" He didn't respond, just held out his arm, stiffening it. "This is going to hurt." Another no response. Shocker. The first stab of the needle brought a wince to Dean's face, but after the sixth and seventh, nothing seemed to phase him. Thank god he was wearing jeans, or else Cas would've had to go to work on his legs, too. Dean didn't say anything during it, and Cas kept watching his face to make sure he was still breathing._

_"How's that feel?" He asked, tying up the last string. Dean flexed his arms as a test, then tried f_ o _r a smile._

_"Good. Thanks, doc." Cas grinned._

_"I'm not a doctor, Dean."_

_"You are to me."_

_Lips collided. It took Cas a belated minute to realize that Dean had actually initiated something. His fingers hit Dean's chest, Dean's own nails raking a path through Cas' hair, scratching down his chest. They rolled, and moved with each other, until Dean stood up and backwards walked them to his bedroom. That was the first time Castiel ever came in his pants without even being touched. He knew it wasn't the right time, but he didn't care. They fell asleep, curled together, mainly clothed._

_Cas woke up first the next morning. After surveying Dean's body, his first thought was how did that happen? Dean was totally disheveled, his shirt ripped open, buttons missing in some places, and there were bleeding scratches running down his front, His hair looked like Cas had used it for handles and fucked his face, all crimped and sticking up in strange patterns, and a bleeding bite mark violently embraced the side of his left cheek. Cas left quietly, collecting his belongings. There'd been a note waiting on Dean's kitchen table. All it had said was:_

_There is nothing for me but to love you,_

_And the way you looked last night._

  


_Cas wants to make a noise of protest as he's ripped out of the niceish memory, and thrown into a horrifically crappy one. Cas'd had three brothers growing up, key word being 'had'. Lucifer, Gabriel and Micheal. Luci had been Sir's favorite. That's what Cas always called his dad. Sir. His mother? She was out of the picture. Not dead, not then, anyway, but so dried up inside that she couldn't function at work, let alone take care of four rowdy boys. Sir knew how to 'take care' of them, in a matter of speaking. He'd been the last child, the accident, four years younger than Micheal, who was supposed to be the baby of the family, six younger than Gabe and eight than Luci. Their dad wasn't abusive. Not really. He just had his bad days. They grew up in a tiny house in the middle of Southern California, where there's so much heat that nothing grows but resentment for the waking world and hatred between family members. Sure, he'd been kicked around a hell of a lot as a little kid, but that was to be expected, seeing as how he had those three older brothers. Sir never touched him in any 'bad places', and for a while, Cas was exceedingly happy. He aced classes, had a bright future ahead of him, and Sir treated him like royalty, letting him sit on his knee and tug on his beard, when Micheal and Gabriel scampered fearfully around his feet, bringing him beers. When Sir got angry, he got really angry, and all the kids knew it, including Cas. Nobody ever bothered him after nine on a Saturday unless they wanted to be practically smited on the spot._

 

_Mom was also off limits, had been since the cancer had taken over the majority of her body, leaving her bed-ridden and hooked up to so many beeping machines and tubes that even if Cas wanted to, he couldn't get close to her. The most he'd ever said to his mom was 'do you need more Jello', or some shit like that. Even as a four year old, he knew that his mother was never getting better. He knew that when sick people were sent home form the hospital, there was no hope left for them. He never really learned his parents actual names. They were always just Mom and Sir. Micheal grew up pretty well, as a functioning member of society. Gabe did too, became a magician. He'd come home, when Cas was just starting middle school as a ten year old, to show him tricks he'd learned that day. Gabe decided high school just wasn't for him Sophomore year, dropping out and forging papers, which got him into a community college just down the road from their tiny house. But Luci? He was the odd duck, and one night, when he was twenty six, something inside him snapped. To this day, Cas still has no idea what made him do it, just that it happened._

 

_He was at a sleepover, just two houses down, and had heard the sirens before he'd smelled the smoke. He knew Luci was home for the weekend, and things had been, well, strange, to say the least. When he'd come home from school the day before, Luic'd cried, which is not something he ever did. Cas remembers asking him what the matter was, and he'd made up some bullshit lie about how big Cas had gotten, but something had just felt off. It wasn't until that night, laying next to Hail in the dark, that he realized. Luc always had a sort of obsession with fire. He always said that it had a life of it's own, something magical and mysterious. As soon as the smoke hit his nose, his brain went into overdrive, and he was up and out of his sleeping bag so fast that Hail had no time to grab his leg, but instead was lunging at open air. He remembers running to the window and letting the wood slice into his palm as he climbed up and over the ledge, through the screen-less space, and dropped the ten feet to the hard ground below. He's pretty sure she'd called after him, a panicked shout of his name echoing through empty air._

 

_The blaze was shooting out of the chimney, flames licking the darkening sky, and he stood for a minute, watching in shocked disbelief. And then he was running, his feet skimming the grass as he approached the house, practically flying through the door, hinges busted clean through. He could feel their screams. His lungs burned as he took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the crumbling sensation underneath his toes._

_"Mom!" He squinted, trying to see through the haze. Cinders crackled behind him, and the stair case shook violently, wood splintering off in his frightened hands as he gripped desperately for the landing in front of his nose. A scream split through the silence that had greeted his helpless call, and something leaped inside of him. Cas launched himself off of the last falling step, the rest of the stairs consumed in a roaring blaze, catching on the edges of his shirt. Once he'd found his footing, he'd hit the ground, crawling forwards on his stomach, towards his parent's rooms. There was already smoke billowing out from under the doorjamb. "Mom! Sir!" Cas wrenched open the door, forgetting to check to make sure if the knob was hot or not, and was met with a literal wall of fire. He doesn't remember if he screamed, just that it was so blazing hot, he could almost feel his skin starting to melt. He'd backed away so quickly that he'd tripped over something, and when he'd landed next to it, he'd screamed. It was a burned stub of an arm, with a tattoo of a snake wrapping around the wrist and curving around the tips of fingers. There was only one person Cas knew who had that tattoo. Micheal. He' scuttled backwards on his hands and feet, terror painting his vision redder than it should have been in the brownish- tinged smoke. A shriek caught his attention, and he quickly flipped onto his stomach again, and crawled towards the noise. He passed the edge of a shoe, and when he pulled on it, an entire leg came with it. Luci's leg. He'd had a giant scar running up the side of it from when he'd fallen off his bike as a small child. Cas just pushed it aside. He made it to his room, where the sound had originated from, and remembered to touch the edge of the door knob this time. It was warm. He cautiously opened it, only to find Gabe, laying on the floor, pants on fire and the wall furthest away from them ablaze. "Gabe!" He'd dropped down next to him, staring at his burning legs in horrified shock, and then something in his brain decided to be kick started, and he managed to reach around himself and grab a blanket, smothering the flames licking up his brother's back. He remembers lifting Gabe onto his frail, fourteen-year old shoulders and carrying him over to the window, heaving him into the frame and out onto the grass in the back. He remembers falling out after, and landing feet first, knees locking as his face collided with the ground. He remembers dragging his lower body with his arms, over to Gabriel, spread eagle and unmoving. He'd put his hands on Gabe's chest just like he'd done in babysitting practice, and had compressed thirty times, breathing once, twice, into his mouth. He doesn't remember anything after that._

 

_The next time his eyes were open, he was in a hospital. Your family burned alive. Those were the whispers murmured to him by the staff. By the foster parents. By the school. Apparently, the CPR he'd  tried on Gabe hadn't worked. Cas never told anyone that the arsonist was actually Lucifer, his twenty six year old older brother, who'd gone into that house with a full gallon of gasoline, set up a sleepover for Cas so that he wouldn't be killed, and set his childhood home ablaze._

 

 _Suddenly, that memory slips, and what lays before Cas is an unending, black tube. He has no choice but to be sucked into it._  


Dean's life had been calm. Boring, but calm, for the past few years. And now this. Castiel. He was the unforeseen disaster, the freak weather anomaly that completely destroyed Dean's sunny picnic, and sitting in the back of that ambulance, holding his still and unresponsive hand in his own, Dean knows he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Not really. If he'd asked his former self, the one from years ago, if he thought they'd fall for a dude in a ratty polo and khakis, he would've laughed and thrown his drink. But not this Dean. This one watches and waits for any tick of life from the man who's so thoroughly fucked up Dean's own.  


"Sir, we need you to let go, sir. He needs the IV, Sir." The words register, but Dean does nothing, maybe even squeezes tighter, until that same paramedic, Kevin, has to physically pry his fingers off of Cas'. He stick Cas' arm with a needle, moving as blurry face throughout Dean's vision. Nothing is sticking with him at the moment. The doors to the ambulance slams, and the engine stutters to life, and Dean thinks that maybe he can hear Cas' thoughts. The oxygen mask is situated just underneath Cas' nose, making his face lift in a way that Dean has only ever seen, really seen, once before, when the two of them were holding hands for the first time, and Cas' face had done that _thing_ , that tiny little curve close to the bridge of his nose had become more accentuated, and he'd closed his eyes, tiny smile lines forming around the edges of them, blending together with the tips of his eyelashes. Dean feels his eyes try to pulse tears again, but they won't come. He can feel the young paramedic watching him, and can't be bothered to give a damn. Dean's fingers twitch in his lap, an aborted movement, and he scoots closer to Cas, wishing the built in ambulance benches could move. The cold metal bites in the palms of his hands as he leans slightly forwards.

"I need you," He whispers, and Kevin, sitting in the back with them, turns his head slowly, like he can't believe what he's hearing. Dean doesn't care. "Don't worry, Cas. You're going to wake up." He takes his hand again, squeezing. "You have to wake up," His voice breaks.

Lips move on their own accord, starting rough and broken. "Some da-" His voice breaks, and in the quietness of the ambulance, it sounds like a gunshot. He starts again. "Some day, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you Look Tonight." It's soft, dry roasted notes sliding off his lips, arcing through the ambulance. "Do you remember this one? It's what was playing when I first saw you." He laughs, a little wetly, and sighs, trying to force his voice not to shake. "God, I'm a sappy fuck, but... This could be our song, if you want it to be."

 

He doesn't stop when Cas flat lines.

 

He doesn't stop when the man at the front yells for backup.

 

He doesn't stop when the shot isn't working.

  
Dean sings the entire thing through. He stands when they ask him to, brushing the hair that has fallen in Cas' cold face from the electric shocks, and ends the verse. "Keep that breathless charm, won't you please arrange it cause Ilove you, just the way you look tonight. Hmm, hmm, hm, hmm. Just the way you look... tonight."

He let's the tears start to fall.

 

 

Cas jerks, fingers twitching, and then his eyes are flying open and his back is arching off the stretcher and he's taking a gasping breath, choking midway through. The first thing he's able to make out are the eyes. They look like home. _Dean,_ he tries to say, but can't because something's blocking his airway. A hand drops into his line of sight, and the thing is removed.

"Dean," He wheezes, and then he's being engulfed in a hug so powerful, he can feel most of his broken pieces sticking back together, putting things back into places that he hasn't had filled in a along time. He breathes in that pine, wood-smoke, apple pie scent that is so unmistakably _Dean_ and-  


"You were dead for two minutes."

"


	7. Blue

 

 

_"_ _Arctic was your still body, taunting me day in and day out, that I had been late. That 'late' was all I'd ever amount to. All I'd ever been._

_It was the bite of the air, the echoing cries of grief that bounced through that goddamn hospital as I waited, watched, prayed._

_Arctic persisted for days. It started to break me apart like nothing else ever had._

_Thankfully, it melted once those eyes opened wide again._

_I could breathe again."_

\----------------------------------------------------

\-------------------------

\------------------------------------------------------  
  


**September 1983**   
  


"Hey, Dean? Dean!" Fingers snap in front of his nose, and he starts, pencil flicking out of his fingertips and flying across the classroom. "Dude! Hello?" Dean turns his head, eyes emptily regarding the boy next to him.

"Yeah, sorry, Benny. Kinda zoned out there."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." He scoffs under his breath, shakes his head, and goes back to his paper, clenched between his hands. He stares at it, fingertips beginning to turn white on the edge of the page, and Dean frowns, confusion swirling in his brain. Benny doesn't get annoyed, or angry, or anything like that, especially not with school work. But that's exactly what his body language is screaming, and an air circles the two of them, dangerously icy.

"You need help there?" But Benny doesn't respond. Dean sees the corner of his lip twitch, and then he slowly lifts his head. "B-Benny, you-you're eyes-" He grins, and cocks his head, gleaming black eyes flashing in the florescent light emanating from the classroom's ceiling. His entire face had morphed, and now it doesn't look like Benny at all. It's more of a cross between a rotting Sam and John. The thing that has replaced his best friend opens it's mouth, gray tongue flicking over rotting teeth, and it smiles, reaching a withered hand towards Dean's face. He's too petrified to move, and when it touches his cheek, Dean's throat immediately closes, and he's choking, scrabbling against the arctic fingers, but he can't pry them off. In his fading vision, the creature leans it's head right next to Dean's ear and licks against it's shell. He hears it laugh, and then it's whispering, and it's voice is distorted and alien. "Dreams come true, Dean, but nightmares are dreams too."  
  
  


And then he was coming out of it, gasping and wheezing on air, his breath making frigid clouds in the arctic freezer of a room he was in. His entire body arced out of the chair, ramrod straight and he clawed at the thing inside of his chest, trying to rip the raven that somehow got stuck there, out through the front of him. He knew he was having a panic attack, and for the first time in a while, he knew why.  
  
  


This had been a recurring nightmare of his for the past two weeks. Every night, it started the same, but it always finished differently. Tonight was the worst it'd been. In the others, usually Benny just said something, or looked wrong, but... This was personal. That was something that Sammy had said, when things had gotten real bad and he was spiraling. Dean hadn't noticed Sam was slipping until he'd said it, December, three days before Christmas. Sam'd asked him if he knew what he wanted, monotone, no emotion left to speak of. Dean hadn't noticed.

"I want your dreams and mine to come true." He'd responded, and Sam had sighed into the darkness.

"Dreams come true, Dean, but nightmares are dreams too."  
  
  
  


Dean curled himself into a ball, nausea sweeping over him in horrible waves, and he squeezed his eyes shut, groaning. The door opened violently, slamming against the wall, and then there was a pair of arms around him, and he was being pulled against a chest. He was boiling hot, and his mouth hung open, panicked, heaving breaths rasping through parched lips.

"Dean, Dean can you hear me? Hey, stay with me, man. Stay with me." A blurry face swam in his dark vision, and through it, he managed to make out a small, frightened woman, her hands buried in Dean's shirt, scratching the fabric. Dean shook his head slightly, and the pressure of the woman's fingers left his shoulders. Suddenly, there was room for him to breathe.

"I'm okay." He murmured, getting his bearings again. Cas' heart monitor beeped steadily in the mainly silent room, like drops of water in a still pond. Cas' sunken eyes didn't twitch, his eyelashes stayed lifeless against graying cheeks. Dean used the flat of his hands to stand, lifting off on rungs of the chair, just barely getting his footing. The nurse who'd woken him up was standing over Cas' IV bag, tapping the tube.  
  


Cas had been in a comatose state for weeks now. It was said to be an after effect of the overdose, some sort of tissue damage thing, but Dean didn't really believe that. He watched the woman lightly brush her fingers against the supple skin of Cas' inner arm, right by the gauze patch where the needle rested comfortably. Not even so much as a twitch went through Cas' fingertips. No hair raising, no eyelash flutter. Nothing. Dean dropped his chin into the cradle his hand made, resting his elbows on the knees of his jeans. He wanted more time with Cas. That was it. He'd never met anyone quite like the dead-like boy in front of him.   
  


There was something magical about Castiel.  
  
  


"Madison, right?" The woman, _more like gir_ l, smiled slightly, not meeting Dean's eyes, and turned around, little cap flouncing lightly against her curls.

"That's me, mister." Her dress-thing swished, and Dean realized that she was probably a Candy Striper, one of the volunteer girls who helps out to get Community hours, or something like that.

"How's he doing?" Dean laid his fingertips lightly against the bumps in the bottom of the sheets where he assumed Cas' feet are. They didn't move.

"I'm not a doctor," She said this through bitten lips and nervous eyes. _Do I really want to know?_ "But my best guess is that this will be temporary." She shot him what would normally pass for a smile, but in the dim light of the hospital room, it looked ghoulish and fake. "Have a nice night, Dean." She whispered this, wiping her gloved hands on her skirt, backwards-walking to the door. "Holler if you need me," He gave her what he hoped passed for a confident wave, and heard the lock click. That's the same moment his legs gave out.  
  
  
  


Dean is woken up by a wet gasp. It took him a belated minute to realize that it came from above him. While his brain was still trying to process what that means, his body was lifting itself off the ground, eyes opening. Cas was awake. For the first time in weeks, those eyelids were fluttering in big blinks, and he was choking around the plastic breathing tube in his throat. Dean's mouth was open in a silent cry, his ears filled with static as he seemed to fall from the end of the bed to the side with the monitors, all of them going haywire.

"Shh, it's okay, angel. It's okay." Dean didn't know he said it, but Cas heard him, and his frantic bucking is slightly calmed. The door to the room hit the wall with a bang, doctors and nurses piling in, and they push Dean backwards, trying to undo the tube lodged in Cas' throat. Cas' shaking.  
  
  
  


Once it was out, Cas could croak words through his shredded throat, the first one being 'Dean'.  
  
  
  
  


Now, only about a week later, Cas is clawing at Dean's side. After he'd been given the okay to be sent home by the hospital, Dean had offered to drive Cas home. There'd been an awkward silence the entire time, Cas not knowing what to say, Dean afraid that he'd yell if he opened his mouth. They'd pulled up to Cas' apartment complex not twenty minutes later, but he hadn't made any move to get out of the car.

"Dean, uh..."

"What." He hadn't meant it to come out that harsh, but it did, and he couldn't take it back.

"My landlord, uh, he kicked me out."   
  


Dean didn't move for a second or two. His grip on the steering wheel kept tightening and loosening, and Cas braced himself to be shouted at. Then-

"You're moving in with me."

Cas was stunned into momentary silence. "Dean, I'm not asking for that-" But an angry glare had met his eyes.

"Well fuck you and fuck your landlord because you're moving in with me."

 

Less then a month, they had Cas completely moved in. He hadn't had much, just some plants, a record player _\- f_ _or the oldies,_ Cas had said. _I like them_ \- and a cot. That was fine with Dean. The old one had left a lot of things. It had happened when Cas was sketching, perched on the bed, trying to ignore the itching under his skin. The doctor had said that it would be a side effect of withdraw, but so far, he didn't think it was that bad. Dean passed by his open door, carrying a gym bag, water bottle between his teeth, shirt slung over one shoulder. Curious, Cas had shut the notebook, pencil left near the spine to hold the page, and got up from the bed, poking his head into the hallway.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He answered absentmindedly, tying one of his shoes as tightly as possible.

"Where are you going?"

"Practice." This time it was muffled by the t-shirt being pulled over his head.

"At," Cas glanced back at the clock on his wall. "6:23 in the morning?"

"Yeah," Dean came back around the corner, stopping a few feet from Cas' door. "Why? It's preseason." Cas nodded as though he understood.  
  
  


"Can I come watch you play?"

The smart part of Dean's brain had told him to say no. To make up some excuse. But he ignored it.

"Uh, yeah, I guess."  
  
  


And as Dean ran the length of the field, screaming at the boys to pick it up, watching Trevor, Zach and the other kid glower from the bleachers, he was glad he hadn't listened. Cas sat high up and far to the right, notebook in one hand, pencil in the other. He was watching the plays, head bouncing between the ball and his paper, and if Dean had to guess, he'd have to say that Cas was drawing the game, play by play.  
  


_Yeah. Something magical._   
  
  
  
  


So that's how they ended up here. Cas' room was the spare one that hadn't been occupied in a very long time, and if Dean is being honest with himself, he'll admit that Cas' is there to monitor him as much as he is to watch Cas. But right now, with his arms around Cas' twitching waist, trying to calm his cravings, his 'need' for his next fix, Dean kinda regrets his decision. He's got practice the next morning, for god sake.  
  
  
  


"Dean, I need it. You have to give it me, Dean. I, _ah!_ " The entire left side of Cas' body twitches, and then convulses, and he's left recoiling out of Dean's arms, and folding in on himself, both hands scratching at the fabric covering his ribs. His fingertips tug and tear his shirt, a flaming, burning sensation consuming him. He knows he has to stop himself or else he's going to make himself bleed, but he doesn't care, and rips the thin, white t-shirt stained with sweat on the seam, finally getting his nails on skin. Dean is pulling at one of his arms, and Cas glares back at him. Cas is not having any of it, and, ignoring Dean as best he can, starts to scratch, clawing against the protruding bones in his abdomen until he feels warm liquid running from the marks he's left behind, and he wants to keep going. He really wants to keep going, but Dean wins the battle on his arm, fully pulling him onto himself so that Cas' straddling Dean's lap, blood dripping onto his gray sweatshirt.  
  
  


Dean releases Cas' hands, and lets them drop to his shoulders, and he sighs, one long breath leaving his mouth, tickling Cas' head. Dean brings his own arms up and around Cas, hugging him tightly, almost as if he's trying to mold himself to Cas, to remember what this boy feels like, just in case. Cas' shaking has subsided some, but not completely, and Dean rubs little circles on his shoulder blade in an effort to get him to calm down.

"I'm gonna have to take a look at those scratches," He mummers, nuzzling into the back of Cas' head, inhaling his scent. Cas shivers, and moves one of his hands to his side, blood steadily trickling out of three, worryingly deep fingernail marks. Cas must make some kind of sound, because Dean hooks his arms underneath Cas', and in an impressive show of strength, lifts him off his chest and lays him on his back on the bed.   
  
  


Cas doesn't fight, doesn't protest, just lays there. Dean meets his eyes, and scans down his body, stopping on the tattered remains of the left side of his shirt, red edges sticking to his heaving side. Dean rakes a hand through his hair and stares up at the ceiling, then grips the back collar of his sweater. It drops to the bed, and he leans down, the curves of his abdomen catching slivers of moonlight, bouncing them through the darkened room. Dean's hands press against the cuts in Cas' side, and he winces, turning his head away from Dean and scrunching his eyes together. A hiss of pained air whistles though his teeth, but if Dean notices, he doesn't say anything.  
  
  
  
  


" _Ah,"_ He gasps, trying not to coil in on himself, knowing that'll only make the pain worse, and then Dean's hands are gone, replaced instead, with something smooth and soft, almost cushioning. Cas opens his eyes, glancing down towards the wounds, only to see Dean's sweatshirt there, being tied around his side as a makeshift bandage. Dean helps him sit up, but Cas doesn't look him in the eye, just stares at his hands, curled in his lap.  
  
  
  


Dean's fingers are underneath his chin, and his head's being lifted, bloodshot and terrified eyes meeting the ones inches from his nose, the worry line in between Dean's eyebrows deepening, and Cas averts his gaze as best as he can, a tremor shooting down his brains stem. "You can do this." Dean whispers. Cas looks down, shame turning his cheeks a flaming red. "Hey," Dean dips to his level, glancing up at him through his lashes. "You can." He murmurers, and gives Cas the tiniest and softest smile he's ever seen.  
  


And then there's lips on his, and oh, god, he'd missed this. Before that overdose, that purposeful, I'm-going-home-finally, last ditch effort, _this_ was what he'd thought of. The parting mouths, the biting of his tongue, the soft caress of Dean's hands, skipping across his shirt, tattered edges rippling under feather touches, light butterfly kisses flitting between teeth, and Cas' own hands are finding Dean's hair, pulling on the edges as his breath rasps through his teeth. " _Cas_ ," Dean sighs.  
  
  


But then the lips are gone, and Dean's hands slow, and stroke up and down Cas' good side. Cas groans lightly. Dean says something, something that Cas hears, but distantly enough that he doesn't catch it in time. "What?" He asks, words being absorbed into Dean's collarbone, Cas' tongue tasting skin.

"You wanna take a walk?"  
  
  
  


Cas stiffens, and Dean immediately starts to try and backtrack. "I mean, it's okay if you don't. I was just wondering. It's fine, nevermi-"

"No," Cas whispers, and lightly pushes off of Dean's chest, sitting back and resting his body weight on his feet. "No, I can do it. I'll try to, at least." Dean gives Cas the biggest smile he's seen him have in days. Cas glances around his room, _my room in Dean's apartment, good god,_ lit up, and he scoots backwards on his butt, trying to get to the edge of his bed. He doesn't remember that his legs may not work, but once he does, it's a bit too late, and he windmills his arms in a foiled attempt to try and stop himself from falling.   
  
  


Dean smirks as he watches Cas tip over the side of the bed, landing with a startlingly loud thump on the wood. Dean leans across the bed, looking down at Cas, sprawled on his back, eyes open wide in shock. Dean is the first one to start laughing, and then Cas joins in, wincing as does so. Dean notices the slip, and glances down at Cas' cheaply patched up side. It's stained a much darker, almost black gray, and that red is starting to drip onto the floor, almost as if it is a wet washcloth. Cas stops laughing all together, and instead draws a labored breath and tries to curl himself into a sitting position, face going alarmingly white. Both his hands press against his side, making a squishy sound when they meet the fabric. He blanches, slightly unfocused gaze moving to rake over Dean, fear palpable, and then he's falling backwards, not trying to brace himself at all. Dean drops off the edge of the bed, kneeling next to Cas, who doesn't move.   
  
  
  


"I need to stitch those up before we go anywhere." Dean smooths down Cas' oil-slicked hair. He's noticeably warm, and Dean sighs, doing his best to form a smile as he leans over him, reaching one hand underneath his back to hoist him into an almost-cradle. Cas' head flops over the back of Dean's right arm as he stands, knees bracing and locking. Cas' chest isn't rising and falling the way Dean'd like it to, shallow, rattling sounds leaving his parted lips, almost as though he's fallen asleep. Dean starts to move, freezing air whispering through his bare legs, boxers chaffing uncomfortably against his inner thighs. Never, not in a million years did he expect to fall in love with someone as broken as this. Cas is so light, _too light_ , and Dean holds him close to his chest like an injured bird as he carefully maneuvers through the doorway. He's been leaving the front door to the apartment unlocked, and it creaks, a sliver of light coming through the opening. Dean tenses, ready to drop and roll if he has to, but a tired voice stops him.

"Dean? What's going on?" The sleepy redhead at the end of the hall is silhouetted by moonlight, her pajama top sliding off of one shoulder, revealing a pale, thin shoulder. Her shorts are hiked up on one side, and she rubs a hand across the tip of her nose in an effort to wake herself up. Dean can see one other sleepy form behind her, dark brown waves fanning around her face. "We heard shouting."  
  
  
  


At the beginning, Dean's nightmares had been so bad that he wouldn't speak or eat for days, and no one knew what was happening to him. He just kind of coasted, until Charlie showed up at the hospital. She would normally come in during the day, when he would leave for practice. The most they'd ever see of each other was a small wave and a practiced 'hello'. But that night was different. Dean was torn out of a restless and slightly terrifying sleep by thing hands and red hair.

"Charlie?" He'd slurred, and she'd pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not supposed to be here. But Dorothy called in a few favors." She let him go then.

 

"Why are you here? Favors for what?"

"For you." She pulled a chair out of the dark behind her, Dean's eyes still having not fully adjusted to the lighting, and sat, staring. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to tell me why you keep waking up the entire wing of the hospital by screaming in your sleep?" Dean sighed again.

"I don't want to. Your my neighbor, not my therapist."

"Tough luck, buddy. Now I'm both." He groaned at that. _Fucking fantasti_ c.  
  
  


But he didn't fight it. If there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was to never fight an angry woman. So he told her. About the recurring nightmares, the death of his brother, the death of his best father figure, and now Cas, and how it was all happening too fast for him to actually try to figure it out. She listened, nodding every so often, and when he was finished, feeling like a wrung out wash cloth, she only asked for one thing. That he leave his apartment door slightly ajar, and that she'd do the same, just in case. He'd agreed.  
  
  
  


"Everything's fine, Charlie. Don't worry about it." She nods, and heads back into her apartment, ushering Dorothy, lightly shutting the door behind her. Dean carries Cas into the kitchen, sitting him so that his head is supported since he very obviously can't support it himself, and goes and gets a needle and thread from the bathroom. When he comes back, Cas' eyes are open, and he's breathing a bit more regularly, but not nearly regularly enough. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch." Dean says, as he sinks the needle into the first cut, sewing skin together to create what's later going to be a nasty scar. Cas barely even flinches. Within four minutes, all three are done, and Dean is tying the final knot in the reddish-brown thread. Cas sits up, flexing his abs experimentally, and looks up at Dean tiredly, smiling.

"Thanks," He rasps out, and Dean gives him a hand to his feet. He sways unsteadily, shooting a grateful look at Dean when his supporting arm meets his back.  
  
  
  


"You still up for that walk?" Cas nods, so Dean takes him back to his room, and helps him pick out something slightly more appropriate, a long white tunic top and a pair of soft, fleecy sweatpants. Dean finds a pair of his jeans, throwing on sneakers and a discarded t-shirt, and hands Cas a pair of slippers. They pick their way through the apartment, stepping over blankets and pillows.  
  
  
  


Dean decides _fuck it,_ and carries Cas down the steps. Cas is giggling like a five year old as he bounces up and down, and Dean smiles down at him, locking eyes. There's tension, palpable in the air around them, but Dean keeps moving, Cas having fallen silent.They continue down, finally getting outside, and Dean lowers Cas to the ground. This is the first time in about three weeks since he's been outside, and Dean sees the tears starting to pool at the edges of Cas' eyes as he stands and stares at the sky, spinning in a slow circle, arms outstretched. The leaves have just begun to change color, and Dean watches in awe as Cas stands there, marveling at it all like a blind man with his sight renewed.

"What's so amazing about the outside, Cas?"

"I-I don't know. It's just..." He spins again, and this time, drops his arms, coming to a stop facing Dean, and he looks like an angel, white shirt billowing out around him, the street lamp illuminating the top of his head in a shinning orb of gold. He smiles, and Dean thinks he could just about melt, and takes the last few steps to Cas, and then his hand is holding Cas', and the two of them start through the parking lot, making their way underneath tree tops, dawn on the edge of horizon. It's a very long time before anyone speaks.   
  
  
  


"You, you know that feeling where every little thing seems overly important, overly noticeable? It feels like I'm just soaking up the beauty of being alive, you know?" Dean prays to go that he doesn't sound like an idiot.

"That's called ambedo. I'm feeling it, too."

"How in the hell do you know that?" Cas looks down, blushing.

"Reasons." He watches their feet move in tandem, skipping over cracks in the asphalt. Dean's suddenly stop, and Cas forces himself to do the same. Dean's staring at him with a mix of confusion and something warm, that no one has ever looked at him with.

"I- I think-" Dean whispers, staring at the ground. His lips part. "I think I love you."

Cas' eyes flutter, and he takes Dean's hands. "I know." He says, half smiling, and presses his lips to Dean's, moving them slowly. When he pulls back, Dean's expression is awestruck, mouth parted just slightly, and Cas' half-smile widens to a grin as he let's Dean's hands go and wanders forwards himself, pausing to look back, making a 'you coming' gesture. Dean nods slowly, and feels his legs start to work.  
  
  


_Dude just Han Solo'd me._   
  
  
  


 


	8. Orange

 

 

_"It was the sunset that night, blazing across the sky in white hot streaks._

_We watched it go over the horizon, holding hands on the roof of her new car, orange boiling between us._

_The raindrops splattered on our windows as we curled together on the couch, and orange wrapped around our entwined legs, mirroring the candy wrappers littering the ground in front of us._

_That was the night you disappeared, the space you'd previously occupied in my heart now a burned out husk."  
_

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**October 1983**

 

 _Halloween!_ Dean had said. _It'll be fun!_ He'd said. Standing in the bathroom, facing the mirror, Cas doesn't think so. The fluffy white feathers on top of his head are itchy, even though they're suspended above him by about three inches. He scans his eyes down his own body, turning in the light, trying to force himself to like it. A tight, white bodice greets him, straps digging into his shoulders painfully, and he winces as he tries to straighten and lift his arms above his head, only managing to reach half way. The skirt part of this thing sticks out about three feet in each direction, and flounces awkwardly around him. The worst bits are the knee high, bright white, sparkly stockings, and the silvery stilettos that are paired with it. His silver and white wings flutter against his back when he flexes, and he sighs, reaching his hand up to his face, forgetting that he can't actually do that, and drops to one arm against the sink. He growls, meeting his own eyes in the mirror, and straightens up, puffing his chest out as far as he can, before it becomes painful, doing his best to re-inflate his completely decimated dignity.

"I'm gonna kill him," Cas mutters, and turns, checking to make sure the bathroom door is locked by jiggling the knob in his hands. He doesn't really react all that well when it comes to embarrassment, but the best way he knows how to combat it is by doing this. Saying he'd gotten involved in the wrong crowd as a young kid would be the understatement of the century, but it technically wasn't his fault.  He met a girl named Hannah, who'd been addicted to Oxycontin. She'd given him the name of her dealer early on, and as soon as he'd gotten out, he'd gone and found him. Raphael is what they called him down in south Philly, and it took eighteen year old Cas three weeks to begin coming to him regularly, stealing cash when he really needed it. What was the drug? Heroine. 

 

"More like what is the drug," Cas mutters to himself, reaching up and under the bathroom sink. There's a tiny drawer there, almost invisible to fingertips, but he can almost always find it. He knocks lightly with his knuckles until the solid sounding reverberations turn to hollow ones, then hooks his nails into the top cracks, pulling down until he hears a faint pop. The only thing that can fit in that gap is a syringe, but that works perfectly because that's all he really needs. His fingers bump across empty wood, until they butt up against the sharp tip of something.  He pinches it and pulls it out, holding it up to the light in the bathroom, studying the little spirals of addiction swirling down through it. He'd hidden it under the sink only days after Dean had helped move him in, when Dean was at one of his practices. The withdraw symptoms, weren't all that bad anymore, but they seemed to flare up every once in a while, causing him dizziness, nausea, and even episodes of passing out. Ever so gently, Cas presses the tip of the needle into his upper arm, then stops, as his abdomen contracts into painful curl. He grits his teeth, grinding them together in the back, as one of his knees buckles, and suddenly he's on the ground, waves of nausea rocking his body. He can't really breathe, little gasps leaving his mouth too quickly, and then both of his elbows give out, and he's just laying on the tile floor, letting the coolness seep into his boiling cheeks. Cas sighs. _Seems like today is gonna be one of those days._

 

He pulls himself up eventually, managing to stand, crookedly, but vertical. He glances down at the sink, syringe discarded into the basin, and picks it up, gingerly bending at the waist to put it back in that compartment. People at school have started to ask him about where he was in September, but he's made up the excuse of pneumonia. It usually works like a charm. No one tends to bother him anymore after the 'soccer boy' incident in December. Hanging around Dean also tends to help. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that tonight, he's gonna bring it with him, but this dress doesn't have pockets, and he can't risk accidentally dropping it, or having Charlie find out that he's still trying to use. Cas looks into the mirror and meets his own eyes, wet with tears of pain in the corners, and does his best to force a smile. _This better be enough to convince Dean,_ he thinks, and unlocks the bathroom door.

 

Dean hears the click of the lock and then the tap of high heels on wood. _Shit_. At first, Dean thought it'd be funny, to tell Cas that he was gonna dress up as a demon hunter and Cas could dress as an angel sidekick. Truthfully, all Dean had wanted was for Cas to be in a skimpy, girly outfit for once, because he figured it'd be funny as fuck. Cas is a big man, big enough that he's intimidating, and with the five o'clock shadow he's been sporting for the last month and a half, he looks half heart throb, half hot tax accountant. That kind of guy? In a dress? Dean didn't think, he _knew_ it would be hilarious. Cas vehemently disagreed with the entire idea of going to a Halloween party, especially dressed the way Dean wanted, but after much tugging and pushing, Cas had finally caved, much to Dean's extreme happiness. But now, he's not so sure that this is his smartest decision. He frantically spins in a circle, scanning for a pair of pants, but before he can find them, his bedroom door is being  wrenched open, and the most terrifying angel Dean's ever seen is staring at him. "I hate you." Cas blows away one of the feathers from his halo that fallen into his eyes. Dean has to stop and stare for a minute, leather belt slipping from his fingers. Cas stands there, with his hands on his hips, one leg cocked out to the side. Dean lets his eyes scan upwards, licking his lips unconsciously as they slide over Cas' legs, all caught up in knee high socks, the little edge of the skirt just barely grazing the tops of his thighs, and if Cas bends over, Dean's almost certain he'd get a glimpse of Cas' ass. Those bitter blue eyes hold some sort of fire masked behind an exterior of ice, and Dean has to fight off the impulse to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

 

"I am not wearing this." Cas tugs on the end of the skirt, and Dean finds himself licking his lips again, and shaking his head.

"N-no, it's uh," He opens his mouth, and runs his hand down the side of his cheek, fingers catching on the slight stubble there. He flicks his eyes to Cas', and then back down his body. "It's _fine_ ," His voice comes out about three octaves higher than he'd hoped, and Cas snorts, turning away from Dean.

"Good. I wasn't really giving you an option." Dean sags a bit when those words hit his ears, and he quickly looks up at Cas just in time to catch him winking, and thank fucking _god above_ that he leaves through the door, because Dean falls to the ground shamefully quickly after that, landing on his hands and knees, chest and abdomen heaving as he pants towards the floor boards. Cas' laugh rings through the apartment, and Dean grimaces, knowing full well that this moment is going to be held over his head for a fuckton of time. Cas thinks it's pretty stupid to go to a Halloween party at all, but Dean's pretty sure he just doesn't understand the concept of it. When he'd asked him about trick or treating, Cas had given him the most quizzical look ever. "What's that?" And Dean's jaw had hit the floor. _He doesn't know what trick or treating is? Did he grow up under a freaking rock?_ Dean had proceeded to take an obscene amount of time to explain every single detail to him, and then had mentioned the party. Cas had been less than thrilled, but had consented.

 

Cas leaves Dean's room in the direction of the kitchen. He hasn't been eating that well, mainly because he's now prone to sudden bouts of crippling nausea, but hey, heroine withdraw tends to do that to you. He knows, deep down, that he really needs to get some kind of nourishment into his body. His hair alone is telling him that. Cas hasn't properly eaten a meal in about a week, and yesterday, standing in that hideous salmon colored tub, rinsing his head under the shower faucet, he'd gone to reach up and run his fingers through his hair, only to come back with a fistful of black. Horrified, he'd pushed the curtain back, and stepped out onto the ground, wet feet sliding a bit as they met the tile. Using the side of one hand, he'd rubbed a small circle into the fogy mirror, staring in shock at his head. Every time he ran a hand through it, bits and pieces of hair would flake out and land in his palm, roots completely disintegrated. So yeah, food would probably be a great idea at the moment. That much he knows for sure. However, he only makes it to the living room, when one of his legs goes completely numb. It turns behind him, and his kneecap makes a sickening crunch as it's folded practically in two. He has just enough time to stagger backwards, spine hitting the wall, and then he's crumpling, abdomen screaming in pain. His arms curl around himself, hugging tightly, trying to satiate the pain. Cas ends up in a tangled, uncomfortable mess in an angel hooker costume. _Well, this is new._ His heart rate has picked up significantly, and now is going at about the pace of a race horse. His heels are hurting his feet, one crushed underneath him, turned sideways, and he's pretty sure he's broken his ankle.

 

"Cas?" Charlie appears in the doorway to the kitchen, hairbrush midway through a sweep. She and Dorothy have been around more and more, mainly because she has befriended Dean. Also, she can cook like hell. The smile she'd been sporting falls from her face. Seconds later, there's a hand on his forehead, and even though he knows he's sweating, and that the simple fact of that alone is going to send her through the roof, he doesn't push her away. For some reason, he doesn't have enough energy to. "Jesus Christ, man! Do you have a working thermometer?" Cas' head lolls to the side when he tries to answer, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth lightly, an he feels his eyes start to close. "No, no. Nope. Stay with me, buddy. Keep them open." She has his chin in her hands, and he briefly catches a glimpse of scrunched up eyebrows and terrified brown eyes flicking in between his blue ones, before his head drops to his chest. His breathing has picked up significantly, and when he tries to swallow, he finds that he can't. The pain rising in his chest is burning, and feels almost as if he's accidentally eaten a flame thrower that was on. "Good god, your pupils are _giant_ , man! Are you on anything?" Cas tries to answer, but all he can do is stare straight ahead and try and not succumb to the urge to rip his chest open or scream. A bead of sweat drips down the bridge of his nose and splashes onto the floorboards, but for the life of him, he can't figure out if he's hot or cold, as wave after wave of seizure-like shakes run their way down his spine. Charlie's hair swishes past his nose as she stands up, and he tires to grab her wrist, but finds that he can't move his hand without excruciating pain radiating through his whole body. He hears her footsteps running down the hall, and into a room, but then his eyes are slowly closing, and he's out, mouth hanging open, as he twitches lightly, fingertips tapping against the ground erratically, every time. _Yup. Definitely gonna be one of those days._

 

Dean's door is already open, and he hears someone come into the room, footsteps shuffling to a stop before they actually cross the threshold.

"You coming in or what?" Assuming it's Cas, Dean turns away from his closet, a smile working it's way onto his lips as he fingers the t-shirt scrunched between his palms, navy folds enveloping his wrists. He flicks his eyes up to the shape standing no quite in his bedroom when no one answers, and is met with Charlie, lips white, hands wrung. The shirt slips from his fingers. "What happened."

 

Charlie can't seem to get the words out, her lips moving but there's no sound for a few seconds. Then she chokes, coughs into her hand, and straightens up, eyes shinning. "I think-" She murmurs, and stops herself. "I think he's using again." Dean sighs, shoulders sagging.

"I figured that much. Where is he?"

"Collapsed in the hallway." Dean flicks his eyes to hers.

"What were his visible symptoms?" She looks confused, but answers anyway.

"Uh, seemed to have a fever, eyes rolling in his head, elevated breathing and heart rate- wait, hey, where are you-"

 

But Dean has already brushed past her, moving quickly. "What's going on?" It's muted, and comes from behind him, and he doesn't stop, just replies.

"It's not a relapse, Char. It's a flare up of withdraw. And it's gonna kick like a bitch." 

 

Dean thinks Charlie's following him, but he forces himself to stop. "Hey Charlie?" Dean turns, and yup, she's directly behind him. So close, in fact, that her nose almost touches his when he faces her. 

"What?" She half whispers. From the kitchen, the clatter of Dorothy dropping plates echos through the house. 

"Please tell me he didn't land on anything wrong." But he can tell from just the slight quirk of her eyebrow, that he did. Dean glances away, and brings a hand up to the bridge of his nose in a gesture to try and fend off a creeping headache. "Okay." He takes a steadying breath, and bites the side of his tongue. "What'd he land on."

"His ankle." She answers without hesitation, and Dean mentally thanks her for that. The simple fact that Cas hadn't been able to catch himself in time to avoid that is what's really worrying him. Normally, during these little 'episodes', Cas has the presence of mind to make sure that he gets to a relatively soft place before his legs give out. Usually there's warning signs. But Dean has a sneaking suspicion that this time, there had been no warning signs; that this one had blindsided Cas.

 

It only takes him three strides. A hand is outstretched, palm wide open, fingers flat against the wood grain on the floor. The pointer is twitching, which is as good a sign as any for Dean as he stands there, contemplating whether or not he's gonna yell for Dorothy. Dean almost doesn't do it. But then he's being transported, through memories, back to the heroine incident only months before, and suddenly, his mind is made up. 

"Dorothy?" A muffled yeah filters through the kitchen wall. "Can you come in here a minute?" She does, and then  there's the sound of a plate shattering as she lets it go in surprise.

"Jesus fucking Christ." She mutters.

"Language!" Charlie. From the bathroom. Dorothy and Dean roll their eyes. Dean stands, knees cracking, and stares down at the drooling Castiel.

 

"Can you help him?"

"Honey, I may not be a doctor yet, but I _am_ going to medical school, and I know what to look for." Dean cocks an annoyed eyebrow, and she gives a half laugh. "Yeah, I can try."  She puts her fingers underneath Cas' nose, waiting for that telltale puff of life to hit them. She's more than surprised when that doesn't happen, and instead, there's an iron grip around her wrist. Cas' eyes have flown open, kind of bugging, and he's gasping, as though someone has a rock-solid, wrestler-style choke hold on his throat, and Dean can't help but pull forwards, as if he's somehow got an invisible string tied around his neck and Cas', keeping them connected. Dorothy shoots him an annoyed look, and Dean backs off, hands outstretched. He hears the toilet flush.  

"Dean," Cas rasps, sounding very close to an extremely heavy smoker. "I want Dean." Dorothy's saying something to him, something muffled, and then Dean feels a hand on the small of his back.

"You have to call an ambulance," Charlie is muttering this to Dean, through her hair, lips against Dean's neck. He doesn't notice Dorothy's angry and jealous glares.

"No, I can take him. Can I borrow your car? Baby's in the shop, having work done." He doesn't mention that it's because he smashed out the entire hood with a crowbar. No one has to know. 

"Sure." She whispers, then hugs him. He hugs her back. 

 

"Cas, Cas look at me," Dorothy's saying. But Cas can't, back arching against the sharp edge of the piece of the wall that juts out, forming a corner. He squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his tongue to muffle the feeling of flames licking the base of his spine up to his brain stem. Dorothy tries to pry his mouth open, using the tips of her fingers, but isn't strong enough. 

"Charlie," Dean murmurs into the top of her head, watching the scene unfold like some grotesque horror flick. She looks up, and seems to grasp the wordless message of _car keys. Now._  Her warmth is gone a second later. Dean slowly sags, backing away from Cas' writhing body with outstretched hands. "Hey! Grab him and I a change of clothes, will you?!" She doesn't respond, but Dean knows she hears him, and then keys are flying at him, and he misses catching them spectacularly, and they sail through the air and landing behind the sofa. Dean drops to his knees, scrabbling underneath the couch, until he touches the tip of cold metal, pulling them out. Cas is still shaking, eyes closed again. Dorothy has sat back, face pulled in a grim line.

"Drive with him for a while." She bites out. In Dean's blind panic, he can't hear her tone of voice. It's bitter. Charlie picks it up, though, and shrinks a little bit. Dean nods, bending at the waist and pulling Cas against him, hugging him as he stands, Cas' dead weight almost too much for him. Charlie takes his feet, and the two of them start him down the stairs. 

 

They head outside, struggling down the steps, Charlie unable to help as Dean awkwardly tries to pull Cas' slightly smaller form down the four flights. Dean has the car keys in between his teeth, chain hooked through his incisors. He opens the door with his back, pushing, and let's Cas' feet bump over the sidewalk. Once he's within spitting distance of the car, he just lets go of Cas, letting his unconscious body drop to the ground. Unlocking the orange beetle bug with his tongue, pressing the button, he pops the passenger door, and Charlie opens the trunk, letting the clothes fall into the back. She doesn't say anything to him, just turns around and heads back into the house. Dean does try to yell after her, but can't seem to find the effort to move his mouth that much. Instead, he drags Cas by his arms to the other side of the bug, draping his body against the passenger seat, head in the bucket part of the seat, and begins stripping him down, trying not to get distracted by the obvious parts. He folds the angle dress and toss it in the back of the car, stockings going next, and then he notices the one foot. It's crunched backwards, a purplish color, and Dean knows that if he tries to remove the high heel wedged into it, he'll just make it worse. So he leaves those and Cas' boxers on, letting the tights dangle uselessly. Before long, he's got the sweats and t-shirt on Cas that Charlie had brought, sticking with just the undershirt and joggers for himself. He swings himself into the drivers seat after getting Cas' legs situated in the right position as to not injure him even more, and turns the keys in the ignition. The driving is a blur, until Cas wakes up.

 

Dean pulls over on a sort of ridge, the only real change of scenery that Plymouth Meeting has, and gets out of the car, helping Cas balance on one leg, teetering side to side. They climb onto the hood of Charlie's car, and Dean just sits there, empty, letting Cas breathe next to him as the setting sun bathes them in a fiery glow. Through it all, Dean just runs his fingers through Cas' hair, and whispers about the happy memories, surrounded by candy wrappers, cuddled together on the couch, thunder booming outside as flashes of lightning lit up the living room. Dean tells him how safe he'd felt, a thing he'd never normally do, but given the circumstances, he couldn't really be embarrassed, curled against Cas in a giant S shape. How wistful and completely at peace for the first time in maybe his entire life. Cas laughs lightly, tears making bubbles in his throat, and Dean smiles softly at him.

"That's called crysallism." And Dean almost asks him how he knows that, the two of them lying next to each other as the warmth of the sun-heated metal seeps out into them, and into the newly blossoming stars in the sky, but his phone rings. 

 

Dean doesn't remember the feeling of dread as he answered,

Doesn't remember sinking to his knees in the gravel next to the car, Cas getting up to comfort him. 

He doesn't remember the panicked, risky driving, ending up back where everything had fallen to pieces in the first place. 

He does remember the ambulance, watching the shock of red against the snowy stretcher as they carried her in, words he didn't understand being shouted back and forth. 

He remembers the horror in the nurses faces as they realized that there was nothing they could do for her. 

He remembers the time of death. 

 _8:41 p.m., October 29th, 1983._  

He doesn't remember screaming, collapsing to the ground and pulling at his hair. 

He doesn't remember Cas keeling over, having been barely conscious the whole time, just trying to be there for Dean. 

 

He does remember the doctor, a new stretcher, and black against white, blue eyes shut against the harsh, fluorescent hospital lighting. 

Dean wishes those eyes would have been open. 

That was the last time he could have seen them for a very long time. 

He remembers trying to reach for something, and what that was he couldn't be sure, but it was slowly being ripped out of him, and his spine was coming out through his chest, flames working their way through his form as he shrieked up at the sky, sound spinning in a tornado of protection around him, and oh _god_ , it hurt like hell.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Green

 

 

_"Green was that first Christmas I missed with you, the smell of cedar and pine painting the room in shades of an almost-green, and I knew, if you had been there, that you would have looked like that too, flecks of it in your hair as you smiled up at me._

_It was in the way she told you you were pretty. Because I wasn't there to do it for her._

_Green was the way you smelled, almost burned wood, but not quite, and I wish I could have bottled that. I would have bottled that if I'd known. But of course, how could I? You were comatose when I left._

_It's not going to be green the day you find these. It'll be black. It'll be after I'm somewhere else, body rotting in a pine box in the middle of some motherfucking field, and you'll know. You'll know I never meant to hurt you._

_I loved you, you sonofabitch."_

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_

 

**September 1984**

 

"Is that all? That's really all you can remember about your time with him?"

"Yeah," Cas scrubs the back of his neck nervously, fingering his nearly chin length hair. _How 'bout asking me a question that actually has a point, lady._

"Well, I'm sure there's got to be more memories tucked up in th-"

"I said that's it, okay? Can't we just leave it at that?" Jo folds her hands in her lap, clenching them together in the denim of her pencil skirt. She flicks one heavily hair-sprayed curl out of her eyes, neon purple caked on the lids, and Cas does his best not to make a face.

"Fine. We'll leave it at that today." She leans forwards, and Cas knows what's coming. She only moves like this, three buttons of her shirt undone, breasts pushed up and together, white blouse flouncing out around her waist, when she wants him to be honest with her, and right now, he's really not in the mood for it today. "How are you doing, Cas? Actually." He wants to give the right answer. He _knows_ the right answer, but it's stuck in his throat. The words 'I'm fine, don't worry about me' can't seem to come out, and for a second or two, he just stares at her, mouth open slightly.

"Awful." It's out of his lips before he realizes what he's saying, and as his brain registers, his tongue retreats to the very back of his throat, terror painting itself in bright shades of scarlet across his cheekbones. Jo looks shocked, and she leans back, lifting one perfectly trim leg over the other, bouncing it lightly. She squints her eyes, scrutinizing his every move, and now it's his turn to squirm, tucking his hands underneath his thighs.

 

"Go on," But Cas doesn't know if he can. The words sit empty in his chest, next to the lump of freezing ice that's replaced his heart. He stares at his knees, hidden underneath black, ripped jeans instead of his usual khakis, and knows that if he moves at all, she'll see them, the countless spots where he's been pinching hard enough to leave bruises. It's the only thing that distracts him. He'll have hell to pay, so he doesn't twitch, doesn't cross his legs, just sits, eyes downcast, and lets the burn of angry tears that will never come pulse behind his eyes. "Cas," She's leaning forwards again, he can hear it in her voice, but he doesn't look at her. Jo's a great woman, she really is, but she's not _him_. The man with the eyes that look brownish red to Cas' colorblind sight, but are probably a shamrock green. The one with the coppery hair, and the skin made of sunshine and scars. She doesn't have his charm, his allure. That was all Cas'd ever needed, ever wanted, and now the man who looked like pine branches in the snow, like Christmas in July, was probably dead somewhere, just like the little sister he'd never had.

 

Cas and Charlie originally hadn't been that close, but after a little while of getting to know each other through Dean, Cas had realized that the two of them had much more in common than he'd thought. For one, they were both huge nerds, passing their classes with some of the highest rankings in their school. Then there was the simple matter that the two of them were cripplingly awkward. And that their partners were charismatic and outgoing. They were basically the same person.

"Can we please talk about something else? Like school, or friends or," He scrubs and hand down his neck again, and stares up at the ceiling. "Anything. Please."

"Sure." She taps her pencil against her pad of paper, and Cas stares out the window behind her head, the Philadelphia skyline melting against the setting sun, oranges and reds falling from the trees, spiraling down on the sleepy streets, and Cad begins to wonder if maybe, life wasn't really made for people like him. "How are you feeling about Charlie?" He groans, and hears a slight laugh.

"Seriously?" He's looking at her now, and is suddenly struck with the fact that she is pretty, head tilted up to the paneled ceiling, the underside of her chin catching the light from outside, lighting her up in a golden glow, but then her face is flickering, and it's his face, his laugh, his eyes, smiling at Cas.

 

He doesn't know why he does it, he just does. Probably to get the memory snapshots to stop circling his head, to fill the hole that's been steadily growing in his heart for the past year, but he surges forwards, and presses his lips to Jo's neck. Immediately, the laughing stops, and there's fingers in his hair, and she's scratching through it, all the way down his neck, pulling on the long ends of it, and Cas should have known this was where it was going. He doesn't feel anything as he dips his mouth to lick in the hollow of her collarbones, doesn't feel when she arches in his palm, too soft, too sweet, nothing like the hard, pliant planes of muscle curled around his head, invading even the most hidden parts of him. By the time she cums, it's dark out, and as she lays against the leather couch in her office, panting, Cad stands up, pulling his shirt back over his head, and turns to the door.

"Wait," She gasps, and fluffs the back of her head with her hand, trying to flatten the mess of sex that's happened to her curls, and only makes it worse. "Did you, you know-" But Cas holds out a finger, effectively silencing her, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled wad of cash.

"Thanks for your trouble," He whispers to the ground, the gray-green, almost pine colored rug absorbing his speech. "But I won't be coming back." He doesn't need to look at her to know that she's standing now, mouth open in shock, letting the mussed up hair fall into her face. Cas grins bitterly, teeth flashing white in the room, and walks to the door.

 

He's learned how to ride a bike, now that _he's_ gone, and once outside, Cas grabs the helmet off the handle bars, tilting it up to the streetlamp. Cas feels his lips curling into a snarl. He straddles the seat, and pops the keys into the ignition, lifting the kickstand with the toes of his shoe. The engine putters to life, and he stares at the helmet one more time, turning it over in his hands, as the motorcycle rumbles beneath him. Cas snorts, and shakes his head, letting his hair cascade down his back, ending just before his shoulder blades, and drops the helmet next to him on the ground, putting his feet on the pedals and pushing off, speeding down the city streets, letting the helmet spin, discarded, under the streetlamp outside Jo's office. He lets the wind pull tears from his eyes, Charlie's image pulsing in flashes, to the point where he actually has to blink it away. Running barefoot in the park outside their apartment. Teaching her how to dance. Giving her hell on Earth for not telling him where she'd gone that one time, and Cas knows that this is not normal grieving. Sure, he's lost people, but not like this. Not this many, this fast.

 

The apartment's empty once he gets there, cutting the engine before he actually steps off the bike, and wheels it to the side of the building. He stumbles inside, almost calling out for Charlie or Dean, but then he remembers, and suddenly wants to throw himself down the stairs. Instead, Cas sinks against the wall just inside the vestibule, once-wallpapered cracks fissure through the old lobby. Cas stares blankly at his hands, trying to forget what it was like the last time he'd touched him. It had been warm out, August, maybe, and the two of them had been lounging outside on the grassy patch in front of the building. Cas had been pointing to things, asking Dean to tell him the colors. A pink flower, a blade of grass, a pine tree. Dean had done the best he could, trying not to use things that were that color as examples, but Cas had gotten frustrated, and had grabbed onto Dean's wrist, pulling it down and kissing his fingertips with a smoky anger burning behind his baby blues.

"Explain it to me through us." Dean had glanced at him, painted a gray green from the shade of the oak tree they were lounging under, and hadn't known what to say. Instead, he'd decided to map it on Cas, different touches leaving different colors in their wake. Light taps were pink, like the flower bud just feet from them, and heavier, harder, sliding groans were blues and grays. Once they'd rolled to the point that if anyone caught them, they'd be arrested, Cas had carried Dean inside, hoisted around his hips, unbelted jeans swaying dangerously low as Dean had leaned down to press fervent, languishing kisses along the underside of his jaw, sun warming the top of his head.

 

Cas can still feel the bite of stubble against his lips, the harshness of Dean's teeth against his neck, and moves a hand to the spot from months ago where Dean had gone too deep, had drawn blood, but instead of screaming, Cas had keened, arching into his hands, begging him to do it again. Cas pushes himself to his feet, staggering a bit, and tries to start up the stairs. Every time he blinks, another memory flashes in front of him. Days spent outside, inside, the slight height difference, the smell of apple pie and charcoal and wood smoke, and _him_.

 

Cas' falling sideways before he has enough time to notice and catch himself. Instead, he crashes through the banister, shattering one part clean over the edge, and he realizes that he's climbed up about three flights as the wood falls down and smashes against the linoleum. He shakes it off, gingerly trudging up the last five steps to his landing. He fumbles for a few minutes, trying to get the keys out of his pocket, and instead pulls out two joints, one pack of Marlboros, and an old lighter, a scuffed, silver relic of the past. He started smoking the day Dean he'd realized that Dean wasn't coming back. That was months ago.

 

Finally, he feels his fingertips hook over the key chain, and he pulls them out, catching the edge of one on the doorknob. Once it's out and undone, he falls into the apartment. It still doesn't feel right for it to be this empty, this quiet, but Cas knows it is. The boxes in the living room trip him as he stumbles though the dark, feeling against the wall for a light switch. All of this shit is Dean's. He hasn't had the heart to go through any of it yet.

 

Cas folds against a stack of boxes, his fingers slipping off the light switch. Maniacal laughter bubbles up in his throat, and he knocks his head back against the wall. Normal people would usually be crying at this point, but not Cas. No, he doesn't have the capacity to do that anymore. He lets his mind wander, worming through rabbit holes, and chewing out hidden memories from the soft-tissue fissures of his brain. Dean, sparkling in the sun outside the apartment the first day he'd moved in. Dean, blushing when Cas had caught him writing the first time. Dean, shrugging it off after Cas raved about his burgers.

Cas sinks to the ground and shuts his eyes.

 

Dean sits in an empty motel room in Kansas, maps covering the walls with crisscrossing red lines of string connecting pushpins. He's hell bent on finding the sonofabitch ruining his life, and he'd figured that getting as far away from Cas as possible would be the smart idea. Now, with his head in his hands and a beer resting inches away, he's not so sure.

 

They'd only been gone two hours when they'd found her. They shouldn't have left her alone. Dorothy was there, for a bit, but they'd had a fight. A fight that was all about Dean. Dorothy had told him so through swollen lips, standing next to her girlfriend's closed casket. Apparently, before Charlie'd helped him down to the car with Cas, the two of them had been 'getting too friendly'. So when Charlie had come back up, Dorothy had railed on her.

"The last thing I ever did was yell at her." That had been Dorothy's broken whimper, one of the only things she'd said during the entire service and after party.

 

Memories push into his alcohol-muddled mind. Charlie, sparkling in the sun outside the apartment the first day he'd moved in. Charlie, growing into a beautiful young woman. Charlie, after her first date with Dorothy, glowing in a happy cloud of adoration.

 

But that has been shattered. That rosy color that had illustrated their lives is tuning green, and dark. Dean doesn't have the energy or the will to stand up, and instead decides that resting on the mattress across from the big, plate glass window that overlooks the street is a good enough place as any. He rolls a bottle cap between his fingers, contemplating. Cas would yell at him for this. Then again, the last time he saw Cas, he was in no position to speak at all.

 

Dean, in a murky nervousness had answered that phone, ruining the moment with Cas.

"Hello, this is-"

"Sir, are you the legal guardian of Charlie Bradbury?" Dean's heart had sank, a pit beginning in his stomach.

"Dean what's-" But he'd held up a hand, silencing Cas, and turned his head and lips closer to the receiver.

"Yes I am. Why do you as-"

"Sir, I-, uh, I don't know how to tell you this, but uh, she's dying, sir. She's being wheeled into the ambulance as we speak." It'd felt like someone had hit Dean in the back to the legs with a MBA swing, and he went down, knees hitting the dirt. _No, not like this. She can't go like this._

 

He thinks he asked where she was, and he thinks the operator had told him, but he can't remember. Flashes come back, of driving too fast and wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, catching Cas' sideways glances. At one point, Cas had to grab the wheel to keep them from running off the road. There was no sound in his ears except a high pitch ring when he saw her. Charlie was splayed on her back oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and three or four people were milling around her, pushing her stretcher out of the back of the ambulance and shouting back and forth. Cas caught him as he fell forwards, hands outstretched towards her. An officer escorted the two of them into the hospital waiting room, and sat Dean down. Cas leaned against the wall.

"Sir, do you know a man named Gordon Walker?" Dean's mouth moved, formed the word _no_ , but he couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear the cop, either actually. Read his lips. "He stabbed her. Seven times. We've been looking for him for awhile, and it seems that daughter of yours really fought him hard. We believe that is also the man who has been targeting your family since the death of your mother, brother, and father." _Stabbed_. Dean didn't hear any of the rest of what the cop said except _stabbed_. The officer pulled out a notepad, and stared at Dean, worry lines creased in his forehead. "I hate to have to ask you this, sir, but-" And then a man walked through the doors labeled OR, and just one look told Dean all he needed to know. The cop immediately moved off to the side, letting the assumed doctor past. The man, Dr. Jameson, smiled grimly at the officer.

"You should go, Mack. I think you've bothered this poor man enough already." _Right. I'm supposed to be her guardian.  
_

 

The cop did as he was told, and moved away, hands up in the gesture of a subordinate man. The doctor nodded at him again, and turned his eyes to Dean. He thought he heard Cas groan behind him, quietly, but didn't have the capacity to think about that right then.

"How is she?" And Dean could hear himself, the torn, desperate, hopeful rasp of a man who, if he lost this one person, would be too broken to fix. Dr. Jameson sighed and squatted down in front of Dean's chair, and Dean knew. He knew what that look of pity meant, knew it too well, but still he hoped, prayed, that he'd been wrong about this one.

"We did everything we could. I am so sorry."

 

And that was it for Dean. That sealed the deal on his sanity, and he'd slid out of his chair, kneeling on the ground, legs splayed. He'd opened his mouth, but the ringing in his ears was back, so he couldn't tell if he was making noise or not, but his jaw hurt like hell, and Dr. Jameson nearly fell backwards to get away from him. Dean's hands had found his hair and he'd pulled, knowing that there were chunks he was ripping out of his scalp, but for the life of him, he couldn't feel it. _She can't be gone. Not like this. Oh god, please not like this. I didn't even say goodbye._ But then there'd been a whoosh of air next to him, and, through reddened eyes, he'd glared up at Dr. Jameson, only to find that he'd been staring directly behind Dean, mouth open in a surprised 'o' shape, and Dean curled into the fetal position on the ground. He could see the edge of something black and shaggy, and it took him a minute, but then he'd gotten it, and the realization was so strong that it forced him to uncurl and end up on his knees. Cas had slid sideways, and was leaning precariously against the edge of a window sill, panting.

"Cas?" He didn't respond or look at Dean, just squeezed his eyes shut to the point that little crows feet spiraled out from the edges. He took a gasping breath, and then stopped. Dean'd been in shocked silence, waiting for him to take another one, and it wasn't until he'd counted to thirty hippopotamuses that he did, and this one was even more strangled than the first. Cas was visibly slipping off the window, and Dean couldn't react in time, watching as the side of his body noticeably contracted, twitching, and he opened his mouth, as though to scream in pain, but no sound came out. Cas' entire bone structure seemed to turn to liquid, and he hit the ground on his side with a crack, head smacking into the linoleum floor twice, bouncing from the first contact. There'd been silence for a good forty five seconds, Dean leaning forwards expectantly, his muddled brain hoping, praying that Cas would move. The whole hallway held it's breath, just himself and the doctor, and then something fell in the room next door, and suddenly, Dean's vision was darkening to a Christmasy green, and Dr. Jameson began running, footsteps echoing as he called orders. Dean only caught snippets, something about needing a stretcher, and a woman named Linda not doing her job correctly. The ringing in his ears was back, and he moved his hands slowly towards Cas' still body, not a flicker of life left there. Everything he'd ever said to Dean was running through his head at that exact moment, and he couldn't think straight, or see for that matter. He tried to curl his fingers into fists, but they wouldn't work properly, behaving like frozen sausages. And then Cas was being lifted, and Dean's vision was clearing, and Cas looked like a distorted version of himself, paler, the usual pinkness that graced his cheeks having faded to a paper white and pasty stickiness, hearing coming back slightly.

 

They lifted him onto the stretcher, rolling his legs on after the upper part of his body, and began to strap him in. Dean could hear people speaking sternly to each other, words like 'gastrointestinal' and 'withdrawing' floating through the air around his head, not understanding or comprehending any of it. He's sure he'd either gone green, white or gray, and judging by the looks he'd gotten, it was probably green. He felt his stomach start to turn as he tried to stand, almost like a marionette being pulled by the strings attached to it's arms, and the rest of his body just kind of hung, chin nearly touching his chest. He tried to take a desperate step towards Cas, and ended up falling to one knee, gasping. _I can't lose two people. Not like this. Not on the same day. Please god, not today._ A lady pulled him backwards, whispering what were probably supposed to be calming words into his ear, but Dean just shook against her, bucking. "Let me through please. He's my friend, he's my frie- _nd,_ " His voice cracked on the last syllable, but then the vice like grip of the woman's arms was gone, and he'd stood up, and practically falling to the gurney. Cas didn't even twitch when he placed a hand on his. Dean stared down at him, admiring the cheekbones, the eyelashes that rested, closed. Dean didn't realize they were moving, speeding down hallways, and that he was really just being tugged alongside the stretcher. He is pretty sure, now, that the doctors didn't even realize he was there.

 

Everything was quiet around Dean, until they turned a corner rather sharply, and Dean happened to slip, pressing a hand to stable himself gently against Cas' side. Cas' chest heaved, and then he was choking, coughing, one arm beginning to shake, and the stretcher stopped rolling through the hospital. Dean backed away, arms outstretched in a gesture of pure surrender, and he glanced, terrified, to the doctors now milling around him, watching Cas. His chest heaved again, and then his mouth opened, and Dean was coated in something wet and sticky. He shut his eyes against it, surprisingly warm, and Dean wiped a hand across his closed eyelids in an effort to clear some of it away so that he could open them again. He immediately wished he hadn't. Cas was laying there, even paler than before, if that'd even been possible, and now with a nice addition. Red dripped from his parted lips, spattering the snowy gurney with a light coating. Dean gave himself a once-over, and lifted his shaking hands to his face, blood so dark it looked pine green in the fluorescent lighting covering them, and the rest of his shirt. One nurse glared at him, anger palpable in the air around him, and said something to him, but he couldn't hear her. The ringing had come back. He sunk to the ground, still staring at his hands, and by the time he could look up again, Cas was already half way down the hall, too far for him to call out and say anything to him, even a goodbye. _Oh god, no. Jesus... no..._

 

 

Dean wipes his eyes, forgetting that there's no water there, that there may never be water there again. His other hand brushes something next to him, and he involuntarily grabs the edge of it, pulling it to his face.

_THIS JUST IN: Heartbroken Friend of Murder Victim Jumps Off Building_

Dean tosses the newspaper aside and flops backwards, staring at the ceiling. Right. That happened this morning. Dorothy's gone now too. He forces himself to sit up, hand going for the beer, and it sloshes over the lip as he brings it to his mouth. This is how he's been taking it, how he's been trying to push himself through the days. The bottle cap falls from his fingers and clatters against the ground. Dean begins to realize that he's spacing out, staring blankly at the now lightening sky, and wonders briefly if it really is that early in the morning. His legs go numb from the waist down, and he blearily sets the bottle down, leaning backwards again, eyes heavy.

 

_And so it goes._

 

 

 


	10. Yellow

 

 

_"Yellow was your confusion, painted across your face when I showed up._

_It was what your voice did to me, as you spoke in hushed tones, uttering things I can't remember now._

_Yellow was same shade I saw, through your angered yet hopeful gaze, as you took my chin in your hands, baby blues with a yellow tint skipping between my eyes, the crinkle in your forehead deepening._

_Yellow was that kiss, lighting us up, and it seeped from us, blinding anyone who dared to look our way."_

\-----------------------------------------------

\-------------------------

\-------------------------------------------------

**April 1985**

 

Cas shifts the car into park, a beige clunker, and leans his head against the steering wheel. _Why did I think this was a good idea_. He's been trying to integrate himself back into society, and the working order of the human race, for the last year. And so far? Not much progress. Sure, he's back in school, his grades are up, friends are back, but he hasn't been able to hold down a job. _That's all about to change, you idiot._ Cas sighs, but it comes out as more of a whimper. He tugs lightly on the sleeves of his shirt, hoping to god that he wasn't supposed to wear the uniform, and slowly lifts his head, staring straight out his windshield, as the giantess of the situation comes crashing down on his shoulders. _This means I'm officially moving on._ The grief counselor at the hospital had said that.

 

"Moving on means you get a job, Cas. It doesn't necessarily mean you have to get a new best friend." _Yeah, best friend. That was all he was to me. If you knew-  
_

"If that's it, then why am I so scared?" He'd said it while staring at his hands, curled in his lap to keep the twitching at bay. Ellen had leaned forwards, down far enough that she could see the underside of his face, the trembling lips, the scared eyes.

"Cas... was he more to you?" He'd rebuked it, said no, and she'd let him off the hook, but now, shaking in his car, he kind of wishes he'd told her the truth.

 

IKEA stands out in blue, block letters, backed with a yellow circle, and Cas has the sudden fear that he's going to throw up. He grips the sides of his seat, nails digging half moons into the leather, and tries to breathe.

 

This has been happening recently, the choking panic, the _oh my god, how could I let this happen to you_ , the not remembering how to breathe. He reaches blindly in his pocket. The cigarette nearly falls from his fingertips, they're shaking so badly, but he manages to get it up to his lips, chest heaving, and a high pitched wheeze leaving his mouth. Lighting up is gonna be a bit harder, considering that he doesn't really want to light himself on fire, but after a few flicks, the old relic starts to work, flame licking the end of the cig, and then it's burning and the smoke is so sweet, so relaxing, that the lighter slips from his hand, landing on the floorboards. Cas takes a shuddering breath, and lets the smoke flow out of his mouth and nose in small tendrils. He doesn't know how long he sits like that, breathing, and trying to remember how to make his body work.

 

Opening the car door's gonna take more effort than he thinks he has at the moment, but he grabs the handle anyway and pushes, nearly falling sideways. Physically moving his own body is hard enough, but when it's refusing to cooperate, it's even harder. Cas hooks his fingers in a cradle under his left leg and maneuvers it out of the car, doing the same thing to the right one. Yet, as he works himself into a slightly curled position, his will to sit up fails, and he's unconsciously laying back against the seats, body halfway out of the car, staring at the ceiling. Cas turns his head ever so slightly to the right, and catches a glimpse of the clock on the dashboard. _8:58._ "Shit!" He's up so fast that his head spins, but he doesn't have time to worry about that. Staggering like a drunk man, he gets out of the car and takes off in a swaying jog across the parking lot. He'd purposefully parked far away from the door just in case he'd _had_ a panic attack, which had seemed like a great idea at 7:30 in the morning when he'd gotten here. But now, he has to run virtually the whole length of the IKEA just to make it inside in two minutes. The cigarette was dropped long ago, and Cas has little time to worry about if it landed in a puddle of oil or not.

 

 _This is not what I signed up for. This can not be what I signed up for._ He skids to a stop in front of the big, metal back doors, and pushes, earning a loud squeal from the hinges. He's panting, and completely turned around, ducking down the mazes of corridors, from one room to another until he's sure he's in some part of the store that not even the architects new they designed. It's dark, cold and slightly damp, and Cas is _praying_ to God that the scratching sound coming from the left of him isn't rats. He turns the corner, and is met with a door, wide open, with light seeping into the hallway. _Thank Jesus._ Cas walks into the back store room one minute before he's suppose to be there, and when he turns around from closing the door, he's met with seven pairs of eyes. One belongs to a mousy girl, who can't be more that sixteen, and her hair is matted to her back in long, blonde dreads. But when Cas really looks at her, he realizes that maybe she isn't as sweet as her demeanor suggests. Her eyes are frosty, iced over, and she smirks at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Another pair of eyes greet his, and stares him down. The boy belonging to the peepers looks terrified, still lanky, almost like he's in the noodle stage of being a teenager, and Cas smiles at him. He doesn't smile back. _Okay. Real friendly group we've got here._ There's an older woman, graying hair wisping around her face, but she's watching the man across the circle too closely for Cas to discern much else from her. That very same man is, well, he's scary as fuck. A scar runs the front part of his face, practically black eyes lit up in the dim light like some kind of demonic thing, and he's smiling at nothing. Just grinning to empty air. The last two people seem to be twins, a boy and a girl, and they keep glancing back and forth between each other, as though they're reading each others minds. _Damn, I forgot how weird people are.  
_

 

It's tight, and hot, and the big bald guy in the front seems to already have a bone to pick with him, glaring at him and tapping his watch. Looking around, Cas suddenly realizes that _maybe_ he should have remembered the uniform for opening day. Everyone else is in their's, even Baldy Ma-gee up there, who absentmindedly itches his stomach, fake chewing on something, staring at Cas with a pissed off light in his eyes that Cas' all too familiar with. He has a feeling that if that guy's company locker was checked, there'd be maybe six or seven bottles of scotch, a bottle of gin, and possibly, if he's real lucky, a bottle of vodka. It's the same look Cas' dad used to get when he really needed a fix. Like so bad, that he'd do almost anything to get a drink, let that pretty amber liquid slosh over the edge of the glass rim. Cas resists the urge to throw up.

 

"Uh, hi." He says, stepping more into the light. There's an awkward silence, and Cas has the unnerving feeling that he's being sized up by- _what's his name tag say? Bob. How perfect-_ and the other six people staring at him. He takes a small step back, now standing on the very edge of a circle of light emanating from the ceiling. Bob sniffs the air, stops chewing, and straightens up, somewhat like a drill sergeant. The six others do too, and Cas hurriedly pulls on the ends of his shirt, trying to fit in.

 

"Alright, men. Listen up." Bob puts his hands on his hips, tuning in a circle, and Cas rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. _Your men? Really dude? Talk about a machismo complex. Jesus._ Bob's too-tight, obnoxiously bright polo stretches across his beer belly, hanging disgustingly low over black slacks that are practically clamped to his upper thighs. The six other people in the room are also wearing this horrible outfit: dandelion yellow and blue striped polo, black dress slacks, and black loafers. That is, everyone in the room except Cas. His forearms push through a sweater vest, button down screaming for some relief as it's bonds strain against every breath Cas takes. The lilac pants don't go with anything else on his body- pink shirt, blue vest, green tie, brown shoes- but he doesn't care. He's stopped caring. This is the price he has to pay for going to college, having a 'something more' relationship, and then having it thrown back in his face. Jobs. A fancy word for distractions. _Screw this_. "Today is opening day," Bob paces the circle, slow and methodical, and the blonde across from Cas catches his eye again. She looks like she's biting her tongue, as if she's holding back a laugh, and Cas has the sudden hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll have a friend here, until he realizes that she's looking at him. Cas cocks his head, slightly confused, until she makes a small gesture, as though miming his outfit, and mouths _dork_. "And I expect all of you out on the floor in half an hour. That includes you, Mr. Preppy-threw-up-on-me." Nobody laughs.

 

Cas feels his cheeks turning red, and looks down at his shoes. And then all he can smell is stale alcohol and cheap cigars and Cas is 99.9 percent sure that Bob is now standing directly in front of him. "Go get changed, sparky." There's clothes being shoved into his hands, and then _he's_ being pushed out the door, 'the bathroom's first door on the left' yelled as an afterthought.

 

Cas stands in the hall, new uniform in his hands, and tires not not cry. _Now I remember why I hate people._ He wanders the same way he'd come in, walking with one hand running along the wall until it bumps against something that feels like a hinge. He prays it's a hinge.

 

Dean pulls up his shirt one more time just to check. The mirror in the bathroom is curved slightly but, _Good lord._ He's always been kind of big, in a muscular way, and while his scars haven't been all that obvious, they sure as hell are now. At least half of his muscle tone is gone, and now his ribs are visible every time he takes a breath. He tries to make himself appear bigger, puffs out his chest, but that only makes the sickly look of his form that much more noticeable. Sure, he hasn't been feeling all that great recently, maybe a little bit under the weather, but nothing that should warrant anything like this. But then there's a knock on the door, and in a panic, he flicks off the light and ducks into a tiny closet in the corner of the bathroom.

 

Hoping that this was what Bob had meant by first door on the left, Cas tentatively turns the handle, opening it just enough that the automatic light turns on, and _yep, this is the bathroom. Hallelujah._ Once the door's slid closed, he shrugs himself out of his sweater vest, working his fingers against the buttons on his shirt as the vest drops from his fingers. Pretty soon, there's a puddle of clothes on the ground, and he's standing, naked, besides the underwear, and staring at himself in the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink. He thinks he's being watched, but can't really tell.

 

Cas tires to shake it off, and pulls on the pants from Bob, about three sizes too big, and belts them, shrugging the polo over his head. He thinks he sees something flicker in the mirror's surface before he turns off the light, his own clothing gathered in his arms, but then it's gone, and Cas lets his shoulders sag, shutting the door.

 

"Well, now that you've decided to join us-" Cas flicks his eyes up to Bob's with the worst glare he can muster up, and it seems to do the trick, because Bob quickly averts his gaze, swallows and tugs a bit at the neck part of his shirt. "Right, um, anyway. Let's go around and introduce ourselves, saying one interesting fact about ourselves. I'll go first. Hi, my name is Bob, and my interesting fact is that my name is actually Robert." He smiles, hands on his hips again, as though that should be something to be proud of. The lanky kid clears his throat, voice coming out in the expected octave, high and scratchy.

"My name's Alfie, and, uh, this is my first job?" Bob nods. The old woman is next, and she smiles around the circle, eyes stopping on everyone.

"I'm Katherine, and I have two grandchildren."

"Kelly and Dave," The boy doesn't speak, just the girl. "We're fraternal twins. Our mother died in childbirth." The scary dude in the back corner gives Cas a once over, and this time, Cas _knows_ he's being sized up.

"Caesar." He mumbles, voice thick with some accent that Cas can only guess as Italian. "I'm an ex-con." The room collectively lets out a small gasp, except Cas. He can't, because Caesar is staring at him like he's a fish in a barrel, eyes squinted, mouth in a half smile. Blonde-girl doesn't say much, just  
'My name's Clare and my dad thinks he's an angle'. But then it's Cas' turn, and he speaks without thinking.

"Hey, I'm Cas, and my best friend was the one stabbed to death in our apartment one year ago. My other best friend was the one who jumped off her roof." Nobody says anything, and in the back of Cas' mind, he remembers that it's not socially acceptable to tell people things like this, especially when you've only just met.

 

Bob tries to make things a bit less strange, and claps his hands.

"Alright friends, I think that's enough sharing for today. We need you out on the floor- oh! Right now actually! Perfect timing." He waddles to the door, and the others follow, lining up behind him like ducklings. Cas is last, fidgeting in his too-big uniform, and tries not to panic. Cas' normally very bad with people, but when he's nervous, or has been removed from society for too long, things start to go even worse. _I can do this. I can do this._ He repeats that mantra over and over again, forcing himself to believe it. They walk down the darkened hallway, and Cas can just barely make out the girl in front of him, the smallest bits of light from other corridors catching on the ends of blonde swinging back and forth. Bob apparently stops, but Cas can't see that in the blackness, and he's not paying attention, so he inadvertently crashes into Clare, knocking her into the person in front of her, and so, like dominoes, everyone slowly begins to keel forwards. He can hear the other people hitting the ground with muffled yelps of surprise and pain. Bob goes down last, which is evident because the doors open as he falls into them, spraying them with white light, and there's the crowd Cas'd been afraid of, all of them staring at him, seeing as how he's the only one standing up. He feels he blood drain from his face as they stare at the mess of limbs and angered sales associates in front of them, glancing between Cas and the rest of them. Clare snickers, and stands up, 'snuggling' herself close to him just so that she can pinch the back of his inner thigh. He jumps.

"Hey, old man. Looks like you just got yourself an audience."

 

Bob clambers to his feet, shielding his eyes from the factory glow emanating from the ceiling, and does his best to look professional, even though he's rumpled and sweaty.

"Hi folks! Welcome to the first IKEA in the United States of America!" There's sporadic clapping, and Bob bows. "Thank you, thank you. We are now officially open, so go on and enjoy yourself! These lovely associates," Bob swipes a hand in an arc behind him, not bothering to check if all of them are standing up yet, which they're not. The older woman is still sprawled on the ground, Caesar on top of her, and the two of them are just staring at each other with a barely muted horror. "They are here to help you with whatever you need. Now go on and get to shopping!" There's a quiet rumble as the crowd disperses, wandering down into little corridors and isles that seem to go on for forever. Cas feels his face lose it's color, and Clare takes note, pinching the back of his leg again.

"You good? You have been here before, right? For the private training session?" He looks down at her, stricken, and watches as her mouth opens to a huge grin, all her teeth showing. "Oh my god, you're so screwed!" She claps him on the back, then takes off, heading to the right startlingly quickly. His brain hardly has time to register the fact that she's moving before she's gone, and Cas stumbles back a step, now realizing that everyone else has gotten up and left. It's just him, alone, in the front of a giant ass store that he's never been to with a job he doesn't want. _This'll be fantastic.  
_

 

A full ten hours later, and Cas is positive he's entered into some kind of highly organized, Swedish hell.

"IKEA is Swedish for 'fuck you'." He knows that he missed his lunch break, and hasn't seen a single person this entire time. He leans against the stack of mattresses and stares at the perfectly pristine set up of a bedroom about twenty feet in front of him. It has a giant bed, dresser that you put together yourself, lamps, carpet, and even magazines on the do-it-yourself bedside tables, just to make it look authentic. He snorts, presses back further, and tries not to panic. Someone has been following him around all day. He's almost positive, and judging by the shuffling, almost squishy footsteps that have been echoing behind him, they have some kind of problem in one of their feet. The eerie quiet of the IKEA is starting to freak him out, and he knows that it's only a matter of time before the turn the lights off for the night, and he wants to be out of here and long gone before that-

"If anybody else is in here, they need to leave now! Lights out in two minutes!" It echos across the speaker system, sounding suspiciously like Clare, and Cas blanches, freezing. _Two minutes. Two minutes?! What the fuck am I supposed to do?_ But then he's sprinting through the store, the only goal in his mind being those big metal doors that'll protect him from the psycho living in the fucking _IKEA._ He can see the doors as he nears the end of his isle, having torn through the kitchen, bathroom, outdoors and kids areas, finally ending up in bedding. He slows to speed walking pace, but then-

 

 _Schlunck._ Everything goes black. Cas stops moving, breathing, doesn't do anything except let the panic begin to take over. _I'm stuck. In one of my first jobs. In the dark. With a psychopath. No, totally fine. Everything's going to be totally-_ The emergency lights begin to click on, bathing the edges of the store in a dandelion glow that's almost pretty, if he wasn't freaking the freak out. He starts down the bedding isle again, head down, staring at his shoes, trying not to pace. _If I'm stuck here for the night, might as well sleep_ , he tries to reasons. He makes it about halfway back to the area with the fake bedroom when he hears something. It almost sounds like his name, being singsonged, so he stops walking, and listens more closely. Nothing. Figuring it's just his mind playing tricks on him, he continues, this time with his head up.

 

That's when he sees him. It's the silhouette of a man, bent over, sitting on what appears to be the top of a low rising bookshelf. The dude's shoulders are slumped like a man who's carrying the weight of thousands. He's just about thirty feet down the isle, and Cas feels his breath make a u-turn in his throat and swallow itself back down into his esophagus. _Don't be a murderer. Don't be a murderer.  
_

"Haiya, angel ."

 

And he he freezes, feels his pulse skip about three beats, eyes squinted in mental pain, and it feels like someone just took his heart, threw in a blender with some ice and put it on the highest setting, and God, he should've known. "Cas, I know it's you. I followed you, didn't I?" His chest tightens to the point where it feels like he might pass out if he tries to move at all. He hears feet hit the ground, and then he's coming out of the shadows of a giant shelf, totally against what his body wants him to do, and there he is.

 

Standing only a few feet away, arms at his side. Cas opens his mouth and closes it again, like some sort of confused fish. He looks worse for wear, a new scar above his eyebrow, which Cas wants to trace with the tip of his finger, deeper dark circles under his eyes. He looks aged about sixteen years, but Cas could tell him from anyone else. For some reason, all that anger he thought he'd have isn't there, just this _aching_ , and god, it feels like a black hole is sucking everything out of the front of him, tugging him forwards. The words he wants to say sit empty in his chest, heavy, weighted with the pounds of moments that he had taken for granted, all the unspoken, soft caresses that they'd shared, and then-

 

"Why?" Cas' not even sure that it's him who speaks, and Dean shakes his head.

"Rehab." He lies through his teeth. If he told the truth, Cas would never speak to him again.

"For what?" Cas' voice is still too soft for Dean to really hear, can't even begin to decipher it through the mess of white noise that has consumed his brain, all different variations of the same name. _Cas_. But he doesn't answer, just steps slightly more into the glow from one of the emergency lights, and Cas' hands reach to touch Dean, dropping quickly in an aborted movement.

"I can't talk about it right now."

 

And instead of being mad, Cas finds himself falling forwards, and then Dean's arms are there, and _god,_ Cas missed this. He can feel himself crying, really crying, for the first time in a year, and it feels like someone has just released a stuck valve, and they just keep coming, to the point where Dean actually lifts him up and stares him in the eyes, worry lines appearing on his forehead. Cas looses focus as soon as his eyes catch the corner of chapped lips. Then they're on his own, and tears are mixing with sweat and spit and _Dean,_ and they melt, blending into each other, pulling at hair and skin that they haven't been able to touch or smell or see for _too damn long, oh my god,_ and there's blood drawn and scratches and bite marks, and when Dean lays him on his back on that fake bed in the middle of the first IKEA in the United States, moving his mouth down to Cas' neck, it's only then that he decides to talk. "I should probably tell you," His lips leave Cas' neck slowly, until they hover over his again. Dean's panting, chest heaving, his legs poised between Cas' spread ones.

"Tell me what?" Dean gets the mischievous look on his face, one that Cas' pretty sure he could look at for the rest of his life, and dips down to lick the shell of his ear.

"I was watching you in the bathroom." Cas laughs for the first time in a while, and presses his head back against the pillows harder.

"I knew it!" Dean's mouth comes back down to his neck, and Cas' next laugh is cut to a moan.

"I also destroyed the rest of this store. This is the last section that doesn't look like a bomb went off." Cas grabs the scruff of hair at the base of his neck and pulls until their eyes line up.

"Let's fix that."

 

 

 

 


	11. Peanut

 

 

_"Peanut was the indecisiveness that pushed at the edge of your consciousness when I asked you to come with me._

_It was there three hours into the car ride when my eyelids began to droop, your bloodshot ones still glued to the road._

_Peanut was your voice when I lost those first locks of hair, calming my down, saying it was normal._

_It disappeared the second we pulled off that highway._

_I may not have woken up, but I knew something was wrong, sleep turning from restful to turbulent."_

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**June 1985**

 

"Come on, Cas! It'll be fun!" But he doesn't want to go. Like _really_ doesn't want to.

"Why are we going to Canada?"

"Because I just got out of rehab, and I want to go to Canada! Come on," _Still lying through my teeth but oh fucking well._  Dean pulls on his arm, and Cas groans.

"How are we even supposed to get there?"

"We drive!" Dean backs up, arms spread wide, and collapses backwards onto Cas' bed, spread eagle. He knocks a few of Cas' art notebooks to the ground, hand hitting the edge of a succulent, balancing on the windowsill. Cas sighs, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips, and bites his cheeks, hands on his hips.

"How long? And can I bring my stuff?" Dean mimes throwing a ball at the ceiling and shrugs.

"I'm not really sure yet. But yeah, you can take your books and shit." Cas crosses his arms.

 

"Fine."

"Yes!" Dean pumps his fist in the air, and Cas realizes that this may have been a very bad idea. But he knows he can't say no to him. Dean is right, he literally just got back from somewhere, for good this time, and Cas needs him. Sure, he'd needed him before, but Cas knows he can't say goodbye to him again. Normally, he doesn't do this sort of thing, this 'let me give you whatever you want' sort of thing, but he's got this feeling that he may not have much time left with this beauty sitting in front of him. And frankly, he's tired of it. The last time he'd felt like this, he'd been right, and Dean had disappeared for two freaking years. He can't do  it anymore, can't be bothered to fight. _That's altschmerz._ He wonders if Dean knows, laying there, lit up by the sun, sparking off his eyes, that Cas is crumbling.

"When are we going?" Dean stops throwing the imaginary ball at the ceiling, and sits up, still grinning.

"Uh, I was thinking now?"

 

And twenty minutes later, they're in Dean's car, newly fixed up due to the actual job Cas has. Thankfully, he wasn't fired after the IKEA incident. He'd blamed the mess on a burglar that he'd allegedly fought off, one handed. In reality, it hadn't been a burglar that had stained the sheets of the fake bed or destroyed the remainder of the store while laughing with their head back. It had been two boys, hopelessly starstruck, jumping each others bones in the most inconvenient of places. Bookshelves turned into pillows, lamp shades into a make-shift mattress. Dean's pretty sure he came two or three times, more than he'd ever been able to do on his own. "Dean, what's wrong? You're staring."

"Oh, it's, uh, it's nothing." He watches Cas turn away from him with a nod, hands resting expertly on the wheel. That's another thing they've started to do. Whenever they go on long car trips, Cas is always the driver. These days, Dean tends to be too distracted. He twists in his seat, eyeing the back of the car with muted disappointment. Dean still expects Charlie to be sitting there, head buried in a book, red waves covering her face, but he's always met with empty air and whispered regret. This time, though, there are a few things there, just not what he really wants to see. All of Cas' art books. Dean feels a smirk working his way onto his face, and stretches his arm out, catching the biggest one under the tips of his fingers, pulling it into his hand more, and then into his lap.

"Don't you dare." Cas' head turns slightly, giving Dean a side eye, but Dean's smirk just widens.

 

"Don't what? This?" Dean flips open the spiral bound notebook to the middle, and it creaks slightly, the papers sticking to each other. Graphite swirls greet him, and Dean's breath catches in hi throat. He's never really seen what Cas can draw because Cas keeps his notebooks hidden in a shoe box at the very back of the underside of his bed. But- "Holy fuck, Cas, this is amazing."

"Blaspheme," He murmurs, eyes fixed on the road again, but Dean can see a proud smile working it's way across his face. The pencil sketch is of Dean, bent over the kitchen table in their apartment. It's dated _October, 1984,_ back when Dean was still 'missing'. He feels a lump start to form in his throat, and steals a glance at Cas. Even when he was long gone, halfway across the country, Cas still drew him, still kept him close.

 

Dean's side pricks in muted pain, and he takes a sharp breath, closing the books and pressing a hand lightly to his ribs. He doesn't see Cas' worried glance in the mirror. Dean's been trying to play this off, but he's not sure how long he can keep doing it for. Something is wrong with him. He thinks it might be an extreme case of mono, only because he's always tired, loosing weight rapidly, and has a slight cough. But that doesn't explain the random bursts of pain. He grits his teeth, and curls in on himself slightly, trying not to worry Cas. "How much longer?"

"Well, we're gonna stop in Rochester for a bite to eat, and then try and get to Toronto by nightfall." Dean eyes the sky suspiciously, then looks down at the clock. _6:42_

"Uh, you know it take about seven hours and forty seven minutes to get there, right?"

"I thought I was supposed to be the genius." Dean huffs, and slides further down in his seat, blushing. 

 

He knows it's bad to bring Cas this far just for his own agenda, but he doesn't think he can leave him again. From what Dean can tell, Gordon is still holed up somewhere in Quebec or Montreal. Dean doesn't want to tell Cas about why he's going. He'd told someone once, his entire life story and why he had to leave her and what he and his family did. He was sixteen. She'd slapped him, called him a liar, and told him she was leaving him. Her name was Cassie. _Never  again._

 

Cas also has his own reasons for agreeing to go with Dean. The brother he'd tried to save from that fire, his middle brother, Gabe, is buried up here. He'd always wanted to go, but they'd never had enough money due to Cas' mother's condition. But after he died, Cas figured that he'd want to be here for the rest of time. 

 

Dean hangs his head out of the window, mouth open, hair blowing backwards, and Cas looks sideways at him, smiling, thinking that he's never looked more beautiful, face back-lit by the setting sun, road rushing past him. Dean shakes his head back and forth, relishing the way the wind rips through his fringe, pushing it into a spiked shell, and sticks his tongue out, laughter bubbling up from somewhere inside of him that he hasn't touched in an obscenely long time.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" He pulls his body into the car by his waist, staring. Cas has that little worry line in the center of his forehead, nostrils flared, eyes glued back on the road that stretches out to the horizon in front of them. His fingers white-knuckle the steering column, digging into the black material as the engine purrs a bit louder underneath their feet. "What's wrong?" Dean knows that face. That's the 'I'm kinda scared to tell you this but I have to' face, and never means anything good. The sunny demeanor Dean has melts slightly.

"It's... it's nothing. I'm fine." Cas shoots him a pained smile, and Dean frowns.

"Obviously it's not 'nothing'. Come on, man, you know you can tell me anything. I don't judge." Cas grips the wheel impossibly tighter, and he face twists, anger palpable, covering something else entirely, and Dean has the feeling that he may be treading on thin ice. 

"Just drop it." He's cold, eyes glued to the road, and Dean's mouth opens in muted shock at his tone. 

"Fine-"

"Fine."

 

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, turning his whole body to the window as far as he can. He knows it's childish, but really can't bring himself to care much. Cas has been acting this way recently, all stony and mad, but he's never directed it at Dean until now. If Dean's being honest with himself, it's almost like Cas is forcing himself to figure out how to be strong. Not that he wasn't before, but this is different, almost as if he feels like he has to prepare to support someone else. Dean doesn't really mind the change, but when Cas gets like this, he does. 

 

There had been one minor incident, but, in Dean's mind, it really isn't that note-worthy. They'd been in the middle of... things, and Cas had reached his hands underneath Dean's shirt, brushing over his hips. Dean had keened in his mouth, high-pitched whine bouncing through the room. But Cas' wandering fingertips had stilled far sooner than Dean wanted, poised over the first bump of his ribs. Cas had pulled away, moving his hand like he'd been touching blood, and stared at it in horror.

"What?" Dean'd panted, wiping saliva off his chin.

"What have you been doing, Dean?" Cas was scared, and Dean didn't know what to say. What had he been  _doing_? Uh, drinking mostly. Smoking. But nothing to warrant this reaction.

"Nothing. Why?" Cas' eyes had flicked up to his, glare positioned to intimidate. He'd rubbed the fingers together, never faltering. 

"Because I can feel your ribs, Dean."

 

Dean remembers the whistle that had filled his ears as he'd slid off the edge of the sofa, and had scrabbled slightly to get a handhold on the ground. The rest comes in flashes of blind panic. His brain has blocked out the feverish run to his room, but he can still remember the terror. He'd ended up in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He'd lifted his shirt, scanning down the front of his body, stopping first at his collarbones and _yeah, maybe they're slightly too out there, but they always have been, it's fine._ His eyes caught on the edge of his side, once muscular pecs now shamefully small compared to their former glory. But then he got to his chest, a pained hiss leaving his lips. His beautiful physique was bony, sickly looking, and he really had no idea, still has no idea, how it'd happened. Sure, he'd noticed during the whole IKEA-watch-Cas-creeper-thing that he was getting freakishly thin, but nothing like that. His ribs were protruding from his torso so far that he'd looked like a skeleton who'd had graying pantyhose stretched to the breaking point around it. Dean still remembers the pitying look in Cas' eyes, like he'd known what was wrong with him, remembers the muted confession that no, he had no idea what was wrong with him, only that something was seriously up. 

 

Cas has been sneaking side glances at Dean, and every time he does, the nagging feeling that they aren't going to Canada for fun multiplies in tenfold. Dean is white, more so than usual, neon blue button down now navy under the arms from sweating so much. His hair is tousled, and as Cas watches, Dean drags the fingers of one hand through it, pulling lightly on the ends. What are most likely brownish-gold strands pull out and slip through his shaking fingers, Cas' eyes widening. Dean lets out a sad, shuddering sigh, the feathery ends drifting to the ground. Cas' hands clench and unclench against the leather of the wheel, lightly rubbing the spots that he's abused. He doesn't know what to do, much less say, and judging by the wilting half-smile he can see from his side, Dean would probably break down if he tried anything. So instead, Cas turns back to the road in front of him, frowning, and decides to pay attention to the scenery. There's scrub brush lining the highway, and trees in the distance, dyed blue in the peanut-tinted, setting sun. It's beautiful. He takes one more look at Dean, and finds that his eyes have shut and his breathing has evened out. Cas whimpers lightly, praying, as the clouds roll across the purple sky.

 

Cas' bloodshot stare burns into the road stretching in front of the car. Darkness is coming on quickly, which means that they've been in the car for about four hours. He glances at Dean, all the frown lines gone from his sleeping face, and feels tears pool in his eyes. He looks away quickly, sniffling, taking a deep, shaky breath. _If only he knew_. Dean is dead man walking. At least, Cas is pretty sure about that. Judging by the fatigue, rapid weight-loss and general irritably, there's nothing else it could be. And Cas doesn't know what to do. How do you tell someone that they have-

 

But he can't think about that now, and he swerves, jerking the wheel erratically to straighten the car. He finally gets it back into the right lane, two other drivers honking in the process, and he flinches, risking a tiny glance at Dean, only to see him still sound asleep, head bouncing against the window, and Cas lets out a breath of relief, focusing back on the task at hand. After a few minutes of staring at the now-black sky on the horizon, his thoughts start to wander again, back to what the doctor at the hospital had said. 

 

Dean had been a 143 pound, six foot man, almost all of it muscle. After he came back, from wherever the hell he'd been, he was down to 120. Cas had forced him to go to the hospital, just to get tests to make sure he wasn't dying. The doctors had decided to keep him in a ward for a while, just to make sure, and had him stay overnight for a few days to wait for the results to come back. Dean, not being a fan of the hospital, had reluctantly agreed. His 'room mate' was the first to notice. Tiny. That'd been his name. But there was _nothing_ small about this guy. He was six-eight, at least 250 pounds, and virtually none of it was muscle. He'd definitely been around the block a few times, gang tats covering most, if not all the bare skin on his arms, squeezed into a much-too-small, white gown. In for diabetes, of all things. Cas had gotten pretty close to the guy, waiting, day in and day out, by Dean's side. Cas got up one morning to hear Tiny whisper yelling. In his groggy state of mind, he couldn't really process what was being said. Couldn't, that is, until Tiny said 'Dean'.

 

Tiny had been reading a _Playboy_ , and Dean had probably made some kind of pained grunt in his sleep, stopping the flipping pages. Tiny liked Dean, and when Dean was awake, which wasn't a hell of a lot, he was nice to Tiny. In that moment, hearing that pained noise come from the bed next to him, he'd cautiously dropped the magazine, eyeing Dean's friend, sleeping in the corner of the room. Normally, Tiny wouldn't bother. Not because he's heartless, but because Dean's friend, _Cas, that's his name,_ usually helped in situations like this. Tiny felt bad for the guy. He hardly slept, didn't eat, just sat and stared blankly at the wall behind Dean's head or spoke softly to him when he was semi-coherent.

 

So Tiny'd leaned over to look, and had frozen. Dean was half bald, the hair spread out against the pillow in little golden wisps. It looked almost as if he'd ripped it from his own head in his sleep. But Tiny knew that that couldn't be the case. Tiny'd thought he was asleep, but apparently, he'd been wrong, Dean's eyes wide, fear encroaching on his normally calm facade, and he licked his lips, opening his mouth.

"Tiny-" It came out so raspy, so garbled, that if it hadn't been Dean, Tiny probably wouldn't have been able to understand him. Dean managed to move his shaking hand to the edge of his bed, draping it over the rails, and Tiny had taken it, jumping a bit at the shock of icy cold, clammy skin.

"What?" Dean had made a vague gesture, weakly, with his free hand, towards the door. Tiny turned, staring, and Dean's wheezing picked up.

"Get," A hacking cough broke him off, and his body had jerked, arching off the bed. His chin tucked down to his chest, and somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Tiny knew something was seriously wrong with him. Something worse than the doctor's had thought. "Get Cas, Tiny."

"Okay. Okay. What do I say?" But Dean's eyelids fluttered, closing, and his breathing picked up, now heaving. Tiny blanched, rolling back into the position he'd been in before, and started to try and wake Cas up.

 

"Hey. Hey!" Cas murmured in his sleep, but didn't do much other than that. Tiny rattled the bars on the bed, knowing that the only way he was going to get Cas' attention was to make a fuss. "It's Dean, Cas-" It worked. Cas' eyes flew open, hands coming out in front of him, and his legs uncrossed, feet hitting the floor.

"Wha-what happened?" His voice was still fuzzy and sleep-worn.

"I don't-" Tiny gestured weakly towards the other bed, and Cas approached slowly. He leaned down, raking a hand across the pillow, pushing aside the feathery wisps of hair.

"What the hell?" Cas was staring at his fingers, hair caught on the tips of them. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't freakin know. Shouldn't you, you know, call a doctor?" But Cas was already halfway out of the room, panic pushing him to _move,_ and Tiny felt the morphine drip start to kick in.

 

 

Cas woke up in a different chair. In a different room. He couldn't see Dean.

"H _ey_!" He coughed, sniffling, and felt his stomach turn. A nurse, at least, he'd assumed, judging by the lab coat and name tag, came out from behind the desk at the front, by a doorway. She swayed slightly as she walked, a tight, nervous smile spreading across her mousy features. She was pretty, in an intriguing way. Her nose was a small, button thing, with almond shaped, brown eyes resting in just the right place on her face. The hair, tucked up underneath a small, white cap, was fiery red. She reminded him of Charlie, in an odd way, a stab of pain itching under his ribs.

"Hey yourself. I'm Hannah. You can come on back with me, sir." Cas cocked his head to the side. 

"Why?" She smiled again.

"I assume you came in with the patient who has that weird case of 'I just need tests' to hair loss and emaciation?" Cas nodded. "Okay, well he was just wheeled back into his room, if you'd like to see him."

 

Cas stood up, legs unfolding, and took her outstretched hand. They walked through the door that she'd come from, the walls going from waiting-room gray to a nice, almost brown, which probably would've looked yellow to someone who wasn't colorblind. They wandered down the hall, passing two or three patient rooms and one room with a giant, whirring machine in it, before they stopped at number 5. She pushed lightly on the door handle, and Cas walked in after her, taking note of the plastic curtain separating one half from the other. "He's behind that," Hannah whispered, hunched over a small desk and notepad. "Dr. O'Connel will be with you shortly." She murmured, standing up, hand finding the door again. When she'd glanced up at him, he'd thought there were tears in her eyes.

 

He'd sagged into the only other chair in the room, positioned just so that he could see Dean's face, oxygen tube sunk into his mouth, and let the beeping of the machines relax him as much as they could. Something wasn't sitting right in his gut. This wasn't just the flue, as he'd originally suspected. The door opened a second time, and the somber face of a forty year old man came into view.

"Castiel, I presume?" He laughed. Cas didn't. There was an awkward silence for a minute, and then Dr. O'Connel nodded. "Okay. Well, Cas- I can call you Cas, can't I?" Cas nodded. "Well, Cas. I'm Jerry. And I don't exactly know how to tell you your friend's diagnosis without it coming out as harsh and insensitive, so I'm not going to right now. First, I'm going to ask you a few questions, okay?" He nodded again. "Great." Jerry tapped his pencil against the clipboard he held, and sighed. "Why did you bring him in? "

"Tests. He was severely underweight." Cas answered tightly. Jerry's eyes widened, and he quickly shot a smile in the direction of Cas, not meeting his eyes.

"Right. Silly me. Um, did he ever use illegal drugs that required needles?"

"No." _That was me._

"Okay." He jotted something down, and tapped the pencil again. Cas was starting to notice that it was some sort of nervous habit. "What is his, uh, sexual orientation? If you know?"

 

And that's when he'd figured it out. Maybe he'd known for a while, just hadn't let himself believe it. But as white noise filled his head and he braced himself for what Jerry was going to say next, he figured it out.

"Why are you asking me th- oh. Oh _god,_ no." His voice sounded small and far away, and Jerry's incessant tapping had come to an abrupt stop. He scrawled something in smudging graphite, sighing again.

"Castiel," His voice was rough, rasped, and he cleared his throat. "Castiel, I really don't want to be the one to tell you this, but... we've run all the tests we can, and... he's contracted the HIV virus."

 

Cas' eyes had filled with static, vision gone, and he'd started feeling himself slipping. "I'm so sorry. He seems like an amazing man. I wish there was something we could do for him."

 

Cas tears drip onto the steering column, and he takes short, tiny breaths through his nose _._ Dean had woken up a day or two later with no memory of the incident. He'd just smiled and asked what his results were. Dr. O'Connel had stared at Cas with pleading eyes, almost begging him to tell the truth.

"The flue. That's all." 

 

One hand swipes across his eyes, the other stays on the wheel, gripping. _You've got to learn to be strong for him, Castiel._ That's what Hannah had said, trying to calm him down with small pats to the back. _He's going to need to learn to be weak, and you have to be there to catch the fallout from that. And there will be a lot of fallout._ Cas gasps out another wet breath and he sinks his nails into his upper arm. _Stay strong. Stay strong for him._ He slowly pulls to the side of the road, a patch of dirt stretching into the dark. The clock on the dash reads _11:01,_ but he doesn't care, and shifts the gears into park. Dean has scored some deals in his short life, but this Impala is one of a kind. Black, from '67, just beautiful. Cas stumbles out of the door, trying not to wake Dean, and walks about ten feet into the high grass that meets the end of the pull-off. It's a stunning area, even for Rochester, just breathtaking, and that's exactly why Cas had buried him here. His knees crush the blades of green as he sinks, hands finding the sun-warmed rock. Cas' head bows, and his shoulders shake, salt water staining the earth.

"How am I supposed to tell him, Gabe? How am I supposed to tell him he has it?"

 

Cas waits for answer as though he's going to get one, even from a dead person. He laughs, a short and bitter note that echos through the darkened valley. "Should I even bother telling him?" He stands, feet placed ever so slightly away from the edge of the grave, and rakes a hand across his forehead. He's sweating. "I mean, I know a good person would, but is that being kind or being cruel? What do I say? What do I do?" The last part trails off into a whisper, pain starting between his eyes. He stumbles backwards, taking a stricken glance towards the sleeping form in the passengers seat, and feels his world start to shake. He's  had some rough spots in life, lost a lot of people, but never like this. Never has he known before hand that a person is going to die. A person he loves, that calls him angel, that kisses him with a rawness he's never experienced, who connects the light dots formed by freckles on his back, who makes crows-feet appear at the corers of his eyes for the first time ever. That's when Cas' knees give out, and he sinks to the ground, tears streaming down his face. _Why you?_

 

 


	12. Cinnamon

 

 

_"Cinnamon was my exhaustion with still trying._

_It was there when you came back with snow covered shoes and empty pockets, whiskey on your breath._

_Cinnamon was my surprise. Something was wrong with you. I could feel it, see it, through the aura of calm and happy that you were trying so desperately to uphold. You were twitchy. Scared._

_It was my dying strength, my deterioration, but I didn't want to tell you. Didn't know how to tell you. Even through the Christmas haze, we managed to break each others bones with kind, soft words and loving caresses."_

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**December 1985**

 

It's snowing. Dean can feel it through the thick sweater, reaching his knees, and the corduroy pants tucked  into galoshes, laced up as tight as they'll go. A cup of hot chocolate is balanced between his palms, scowl on his face matching the little lines spiraling out on his palms. Steam curls around his unshaven chin and up through his hair, fogging the windows and smudging the edges of table tops and bedposts. The fire is throwing crackling shadows against the walls, and Dean can hear the soft pitter-patter of snowflakes whipping against glass. He feels terrible. He'd told Cas that they''d only be there for one week, but... Gordon is proving harder to find than he's thought. Already, they've been here for months. _Thank god for Cas' college backup plan_. It also doesn't help that Dean's strength is failing. He still has no idea what the fuck is happening to him, and kinda wishes that he did. _Speaking of Cas, if he's still at that casino, he's gonna have hell to pay when he gets home._ Cas has been coping with the cold and miserableness clouding Dean by leaving early and coming back late, slightly drunk. It's almost like they've switched personalities; Dean as the sweet, careful, fragile one and Cas as the burly protector. Dean doesn't mind. He feels pretty damn breakable these days.

 

His back cracks as his arms raise above his head, glancing sideways at the pitch black world outside. Their cabin doesn't have any insulation or heat, just the dwindling fire place in front of him and the smell of cinnamon perforating the wood grain. In theory, it's a motel, one with tiny camping lodges, in the middle of the woods. It wouldn't be a bad set up, save for the fact that Dean hasn't seen Cas in about four days, which, sadly, has become a regular occurrence. He'll leave before dawn, with just a swift kiss to Dean's forehead when he thinks he's still asleep, and doesn't come back until after one in the morning. Dean grunts, setting the coffee mug down on the wicker table next to him, and gently lifts one of his legs with a cradle made of fingers, straightening it manually and setting it down on the footstool part of the leather recliner he's currently perched in. He leans back against the warmed and supple material, panting.

 

That's another thing that's changed in the course of six months. He's deteriorated. Fast. Dean had woken up in the car hours later, time having gone by in flashes of semi-consciousness. Cas didn't say anything when he saw Dean stir, just placed a hand on Dean's knee and squeezed. They drove the rest of the way in silence. By the time they'd made it to the motel, the one they've been staying at now for the entire time they've been here, Dean had asked the same question maybe one hundred times.

"Cas, where did we stop?" Finally, as they were pulling bags out of the trunk, Cas answered.

"We stopped at a rest-place off of the interstate." Dean's eyebrows crinkled in the middle of his forehead, and he looked sideways at Cas.

"Why didn't we go to Rochester?"

"You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you." The trunk lid slammed down with a finality that Dean could feel and hear in the tone of voice Cas was using.

 

The woman at the front desk was nice, and helped Dean carry in Cas' books from the car. Normally, he would've been fine with them, after all, there were only three of them, and Dean was a strong guy, but because of the sudden and rapid weight loss, he was a hell of a lot smaller than he had been. He couldn't seem to pick up more than one at a time. He'd waved her off when she'd first offered, but had consented eventually, missing Cas' worried glance from the other end of the motel office. Cas got their room key, _Cabin 5,_ and had dragged their bags through the tiny bit of snow still on the ground. _'Two months'._ That's what Dean had promised to himself. Sure, he'd promised Cas they'd leave that week, but hey, business is business. The friendly chatter between the desk woman and Cas filtered through the open doorway as Dean sat down on the king bed. _"Not two queens?'_ She'd asked. Cas had just repeated that he wanted a king, and she'd smirked, giving him the key. _'Just don't wake the neighbors, kid.'  
_

 

The maps and pushpins sit on the bottom of his suitcase, and Dean dug through the clothes to find them. He made quick work of hiding them on the back of the closet, concealing them with his shirts, sweaters and pants on hangers, double checking that he'd put them down low enough so that the tips of the paper didn't exceed the tips of the clothes. He breathed a muted sigh of relief and stepped back.

"Your boy here is just a sweetheart, sir." The woman smiled and slapped Cas' ass lightly, who looked shocked for a second, and then his face brightened, gaining that a sheepish smile. "The name's Pamela, by the way. If you guys need anything, anything at all, I'll be at the front desk. Just walk on over." She winked at Dean and waved to Cas, jauntily stepping out into the cold outside. Cas had smiled, and had looked back at Dean, who was sitting on the ground. As soon as he'd scanned Dean's face, his happy demeanor had melted. Something wasn't right. They weren't just in Canada to have fun and take a small, much needed break from life for a while.

"Dean, you okay?" And that seemed to wake him up. Dean shook his head, as if to clear away a fog, and glanced up at Cas, forcing a grimace.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, angel. Just fine."

 

 

Dean comes back to himself slowly when hinges creak and cold wind hits his boots, working it's way into the cracks in the laces and up over the top to tickle his ankles. Dean sighs. He doesn't get annoyed anymore, just tired. There's a difference. Heavy boots tap against the stone door frame, snow sliding off the toes, and Cas walks through, scarf wrapped around the majority of his lower face. His eyes are sad, and watch Dean intently, who smiles weakly, and starts to stand up.

"No, Dean, wait-" Cas' whisper reaches Dean's ears a second too late. He's been trying desperately to play off the fact that he's getting weaker by the day, but at night, when the world has forgotten how to live properly, Dean's mask tends to slip. He grunts, pressing his palms flat against the arm rests, and hoists, both his legs sliding to the ground. The warmth of the fireplace calms his too-fast heartbeat, already accelerated just from standing up. He has to take  minute, and closes his eyes against the spinning waves of vertigo spiraling through his head. He digs his fingernails into the inside of his wrist and takes a deep breath, eyelashes fluttering, and moves one foot forwards. The world tilts behind shut eyelids, darkness taking a downwards turn, and Dean hears Cas gasp, and then there's strong forearms underneath his own, holding him up to keep his other knee from buckling under the tiny amount of weight he'd put on the left one.

 

 

"I'm sorry," Dean bites into Cas' shoulder, trying to even his breathing, and tastes wool. Something wet hits the top of his head, but Dean doesn't say anything. He never says anything, just gingerly wraps his arms around Cas' warm and soft waist, feeling his muscles twitch, and links his hands, resting them just above the clef of Cas' ass. Pain stings between Dean's ears in the back of head, left fingertips jerking. Something is happening to him, that much is clear, but what it is, he has no idea. Just that he'll get these screaming headaches, and then the loss of muscle function and then extreme fatigue. It's as if his whole body is dying. "I must've lost my footing." Cas sniffs, another thing that Dean doesn't say anything about, and he feels Cas' chin hit his skull as he nods.

"Dean," That's the way Cas' been talking to him recently. All soft and careful, almost as if he raises his voice above whisper-level, Dean will crack, or something. He hugs tighter, burying his face in the fabric of Cas' coat, and inhales. Cas has always smelled good, but now that they've been together for almost four years, maybe more, Dean's lost count, it's more pungent. It never used to be. Maybe it's because Dean's other senses seem to be failing, so smell is heightened, or maybe it's just because Canada magnifies the beauty in things, but for whatever reason, Cas' scent has become more potent, more _comforting,_ and Dean doesn't want to move, face pressed against Cas as tightly as he dares, absorbing the cinnamon and ozone that he's fallen in love with. _Yeah. Love. That's the right word_.  "Come on, sunshine. Let's get you to bed." Dean doesn't fight it when Cas picks him up, manually wrapping his limp and numb legs around his waist. He doesn't fight it when Cas gently lays him down on the mattress, and begins untying Dean's boot laces.

 

"Where were you today?" He doesn't really have to ask, the smell is all over his coat, whiskey mixed with cigarette smoke, but he tries anyway. The words float, empty and unanswered, and bob through the room. Cas' fingers still on one of his shoes, and Dean sighs. "Forget it."

"No, no I should- I should tell you, but-" Cas' fingertips trail up the inside of Dean's thighs, and Dean shuts his eyes, exhausted. Every night it's been the same. Every night, Dean'll ask that question, and Cas will distract him with kisses and soft words, and frankly, Dean doesn't have the energy to get mad anymore. He also doesn't have the energy to bother Cas about the recurring drag marks, the cigarette smell that permeates the cinnamon, the lighter burns on his fingertips, from drunkenly trying to light up. But this time, Dean has had enough. He rolls to the side, groaning slightly in muted pain, and Cas' hands drop. "Hey. Hey, don't do this to me-"

 

"To you? What about me, Cas?" Cas starts to protest, starts to say something, but Dean can't hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears. He sniffs, pressing the side of his face into the pillow even harder, willing sleep to come. Dean's back twitches, and then he feels the weight on the bed shift until the mattress creaks, bowing under Cas presumably standing up. Dean feigns that he's fallen asleep, trying to contain his whimpers as the tears that threatened just moments before start to drip down his cheeks. His bottom lip trembles, and Dean bites it, eyebrows crunching together. There's a rustle towards his right, and then a warmth envelopes Dean, and he curls slightly, actual tiredness starting to seep in through the cracks in his racing mind. It's a blanket. His hands tighten into fists on the edges of it, squeezing and pulling it up towards himself with a slightly less-sad sigh. Pretty soon, white noise fills his head, and he's out to the world, snow piling on the window sill behind the bed frame.

 

Cas watches Dean's body, watches the tiny twitches and soft rise and fall of his now-skinny side, and tries to smile. It doesn't work, and Cas' neck stops supporting his head, face falling forwards, eyes glued to the floor. A rattle echos through the room. _Dean's dying_. And there's nothing he can do about it. Cas is pretty damn sure that Dean knows something fishy is going on, and Cas has stopped trying to hide the burns, the marks, the _anger,_ that's so pure and raw that Cas can't seem to express any other emotion than that. He backs away from the bed slowly, hand pushing it's worried trail through his hair as he makes slow progress towards the kitchen. He knows, in theory, that he should go outside, clear his head, let the soft snow land on his eyelashes and calm him down, but he doesn't care, can't care, when the labored breathing of his world is echoing behind him. His tired fingers stub themselves on the liquor cabinet, and he glances at the clock on the wall, ticking the only sound between Dean's too-slow breaths. _3:42.  
_

 

The whiskey bottle clinks against the lip of the glass, and Cas starts to pour, leaning against the wooden counter. He doesn't even care that he's already almost drunk. His parka slips off his shoulders, and he winces, pressing a hand flat against the blades. Normally, when he's in extreme mental pain, he gets a tattoo, and this time is no different. The raised and bumpy skin, probably reddened from being rubbed against the inside of his jacket all day, have inky black wings in place of normal skin, adding to the two other ones, an anti-possession symbol, one to match Dean's, and something in a language he doesn't really understand, right in between his ribs. Glass clinks against his teeth, and before Cas realizes what he's doing, he's moving, one hand resting on the back doorknob. He hesitates for the briefest of seconds, but then another rattle of Dean's hits his ears, and he decides _screw it_.

 

Saying it's cold out doesn't really begin to describe it, especially considering that he's in ripped up bedroom slippers, no shirt, torn sweats and it's snowing. He leans against the side of the cabin, trying to keep his mind blank, empty. But memories keep threatening to push, to worm their way in, and he's not entirely sure he wants too stop them. Their first movie, Dean had laughed in annoyance while Cas threw popcorn at the back of his head during the sad parts; Cas trying to cook and failing miserably, Dean's smiling face helping him stir the pasta sauce to keep it from burning again, that first, fateful day he'd met D-

"Fate," Cas' breath makes clouds in the air, icing and freezing into misty balls that disappear as snow flakes streak through them. That was the word the doctor had used. _It's not blame that falls on you, Cas,_ he'd murmured, watching Cas' entire world collapse. _It's fate._ Cas hears the crash before he notices that the glass has left his open hand. Whiskey and shinning shards stain the concrete steps in a violent embrace of anger, and Cas tilts his head up to the sky, stars spinning as the panic sets in. _Is he going to die?  
_

 

Cas starts walking. He doesn't know why, doesn't know where to, just starts. His feet catch on snow covered twigs and pieces of concrete, nicking his toes even more. "I promised," He chides himself, tears dripping down his cheeks and splattering onto his ripped up shoes below. "I promised myself I wouldn't try to fix you, but I didn't account for the possibility of you breaking me."

 

Dean wakes up just as the first rays of dawn are pushing over the horizon. He starts to stretch, forgetting the pain in his lower back for a few seconds, until it cracks, and excruciating waves of heat crash over his sated mind. There's hands wrapped around his middle, curled into fists, and they rest right where his organs sit. This kind of positioning would've normally resulted in early morning sexy acts, but not today. Dean sighs out a whisper of quiet pain. It's times like these where he actually feels happy. The fingers on his lower abdomen jump slightly, and then someone is nuzzling the back of his neck. "Merry Christmas, sunshine." Dean doesn't say anything, just breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, staining his morning vision with it. He has the odd feeling that he hasn't actually taken a proper breath in a few hours, and being able to consciously force his deteriorating body to do so feels damn good. "What's wrong?"

"I'm happy."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Well, yeah, if I think about it too much." Dean rolls himself over, trying not to grunt, teeth clenched, and settles on his other side, nose now touching Cas'. Their faces are so close that Dean can see the small flecks of gold and green that are sprinkled in Cas' eyes. "It's like my brain has to pick apart everything that I do and say, to try and figure out what it means, but that tends to ruin things, you know?"

"That's kairosclerosis." 

 

Dean smirks, and tiny bit of his old, playful self seeping into his tired body.

"How the hell do you know that?" Cas looks up at him, embarrassment flaming his cheeks a rosy pink.

"I don't know, I just do."

"I think that's a lie." Cas tires his best to make a stern face, but Dean starts smiling, and Cas feels his angry eyebrow trick, the one where he raises them in the middle and arcs one, start to wiggle. "Your eyebrows look like pissed off caterpillars." Cas cracks, laughter bouncing, hushed through the room. 

"Okay," Cas wheezes, catching his breath. "I'll let you off this time." Dean laughs along with him.

"Before I die, I want a straight answer out of you. Deal?"

 

It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Cas' face falls, happy atmosphere draining away. Death is a touchy subject for the two of them.

"Deal." Cas murmurs it into the bed sheets, warm from the hours slept on them.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I just meant-"

"No, it's okay sunshine. Really." That's another thing Cas has started doing. Calling Dean 'sunshine'. He says it's because Dean really _is_ his sunshine, but Dean says it's just because Cas  is a sentimental fuck. Dean would never actually tell him, but he really likes that nickname. Cas grins, and nuzzles again, placing a feather light kiss to the hollow of Dean's collarbone. He can feel Cas' smile on his skin.  "Hey, I've got a surprise for you. You think you can sit up?" Dean nods, chin tapping against Cas' skull. "Great. I'll help you." The whispered words send vibrations through Dean's throat, and a warmth fills him, a warmth he hasn't felt in a long time. Cas' fingers hook under the side that Dean has pressed against the bed sheets, and lifts, biceps clenching. Dean tries not to make any sound, just grinds his teeth together and shuts his eyes. He lets Cas manhandle him until he's sitting up, spine pressed against the headboard.  "Okay," Cas' breath fans over Dean's ear. "You can open your eyes."

 

Dean does as he's told, eyelashes fluttering, and gasps, a sound he'll definitely be embarrassed by later, but not now. There's a tree next to the fire place, fully decorated, lights shinning, complete with one of those little skirts that his mom used to put around the bottom. Dean lifts a shaking hand up to his mouth, eyes shinning. He'd asked for this. 

 

Four months ago, Cas had come home, three and a half hours late. Dean was sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, facing the window behind the headboard, staring into the darkness. Cas' light footsteps had crunched to the front door, and the knob had turned carefully, almost as if he was afraid. A muted remark echoed through the room when he stepped inside, and Dean had been too exhausted, mentally and physically, to yell at him. Instead, he'd ignored him, and had let his spine collapse, falling forwards and curling into the fetal position on his left side. That was when he still had the strength left to do something like that. Now it hurts too much. Cas' soothing hands had rubbed his back, mummers of ' _I'm so sorry'_ and _'It won't happen again, I promise'_ filled the silence.

"I want a Christmas." That was all Dean had said. But it had a finality to it that scared Cas.

"Why?"

"Just in case I never have the chance again." That had gotten Cas' attention. He hadn't replied to Dean, too shocked, but had laid down next to him, spooning his shivering form, fingers finding his wrist, and had drawn tiny circles on warm and supple skin until Dean's breathing had evened out and he'd fallen asleep.

 

Dean turns his head towards Cas, and Cas' fingers lightly brush through Dean's sleep-mussed fringe, catching on small knots and tugging, bits of blonde coming free. Cas does his best to smile.

"Do you like it?" Dean's hand falls, and a watery grin spreads across his face. Cas thinks that Dean hasn't looked this happy since they arrived in Canada, all those months ago.

"I love it." Dean sags slightly, and Cas catches him under the arms, supporting his body weight. Dean  has lost an _obscene_ amount of muscle mass. He's insanely light now, almost like somebody's removed his bones. Dean's teeth catch on the edge of Cas' cotton sleep shirt, a gray, wash worn thing, soft to the touch, and he sighs, shaky. The bridge of his nose aches from holding tears in, and his bottom lip trembles. _Strong. Stay strong, Dean._

 

 

"I've got one more surprise for you, sunshine. You think you can hold yourself up?" Dean nods against Cas' shoulder, and Cas shifts, standing. Dean sits up straighter, using the headboard to support himself, and watches as Cas walks over to the record player in the corner of the room. "I know it's old fashioned, but I thought you'd like it." Cas drops the needle down, and scratchy static fills the room for a second before a smoke worn, raspy voice filters through the room.

 

"It's your favorite song, right?" Dean smiles, blushing, and nods. "Some day, when I'm awfully low," Dean feels his mouth open in shock as Cas' own singing voice joins the track of Frank Sinatra's. He starts to sway to the music, sashaying towards the bed. "When the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you," He puts out a hand to Dean, who takes it, cheeks pink. Cas helps Dean's weak body off the bed, placing Dean's feet on top of his own. Old Dean never would have done anything like this, too afraid to ruin his ego, but now, he doesn't give a damn. Cas stops singing, and the two of them walk backwards, lyrics filtering quietly through the room. Dean catches a glimpse of the outside, snow covered and sparkling, and feels the first tear fall from the corner of his eye. He's now significantly taller than Cas, but he doesn't care, and looks back. Cas has tears in his eyes.

"This is the song that was playing the first time I saw you."

"I know. And it you sang in when I was in that ambulance."

 

 

"Cas, it's a white Christmas." Dean smiles, and Cas sniffs, nuzzling the edge of Dean's neck.

"I know it is, sunshine. Isn't that wonderful?" Cas keeps singing lightly, murmuring, and hugs around Dean's waist even tighter. Dean moves one hand up to Cas' shoulder, and Cas flinches.

"Cas, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I- I got another tattoo."

"Can I see it?" Cas dance-walks Dean backwards, and sits him back on the bed, lifting his shirt over his head as Dean watches.

"Do you like it?" Cas flexes his shoulder muscles, and Dean places a hand on his right shoulder, watching the now feathered skin pulse under his palm. The black edges begin to smudge towards the ends, and Dean marvels at how real the wings look, majestic and dark.

"I love it."

"Now I really am your angel."

"You sappy motherfucker."

 

But Cas isn't listening. He feels Dean's fingers splay even wider on Cas' back, tracing the feathers.

"I love you."

"What?" Cas' neck turns, and he stares at Dean, confusion pulling his eyebrows up in the center. Cas smiles, watery and sad.

"I love you. No matter what."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Gold

 

 

_"Gold was the day we finally left that goddamn place._

_You had to carry me into the car._

_It was my failing eyesight, everything getting a hue to it that reminded me of those tiny flecks in your eyes, the one's that shined like snow on a late, sunny afternoon._

_Gold was that phone call, the one that tore you from me. I guess I should have noticed. I should have said something. But I never got the chance."_

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**February 1986**

Dean was settled back against the twelve pillows that propped up his failing body, eyes closed. Cas watched from the doorway, a sad little smile working it's way onto his face, five o'clock shadow crumpling as his cheeks moved. There was a chair directly in front of the bed, and in it sat a fragile kid, now about eighteen, with bags under his eyes that had turned purple over the course of the week. He was asleep, and as Cas watched, his face contracted into a painful grimace, whimpers escaping his whitened and pursed lips. Kevin had been Dean's constant companion over the last few days that Dean had actually been home. He has this horrible fear of hospitals, so Kevin had offered to stay at the house with him and Cas until Dean got better. But something tickled in the back of Cas' mind, something sinister. He'd been trying to keep the bad thoughts from encroaching, but that's harder than it seems when every fiber of his being was telling him that there'd been no way Dean would come out the other side of whatever was wrong with him.

It'd just been getting progressively more tiring to keep fighting, sort of like a 'we started from the bottom, and now it's worse' kinda thing. That was the entire reason that he and Dean had left Canada in the first place. 

 

After Cas had showed Dean his tattoo and they'd finished dancing, Cas had laid him back in bed, Dean's legs too tired to do much of anything other than bend, manually, while Cas pulled the cover up and over his freezing body. Dean's smile had barely reached his eyes as they'd closed, and Cas had blown him a kiss, waiting for his rasping breath the start evening out. Cas had watched the soft rise and fall of Dean's chest just the way he had the night before, although this time, early afternoon sunlight was streaming through the window behind the bed. Cas could see Pamela in the front office from where he was standing, and watched her maneuver through the room, talking rapidly into a landline, chord wrapping itself around her fingers. The world seemed stated, almost happy, snowy cars unmoving in a sea of whitish gray. Cas felt to corners of his mouth trying to lift themselves, but his muscles were too tired, and eventually just fell back into his usual frown. Dean normally fell asleep around this time, too exhausted by trying to act like his old self, even though Cas had constantly told him that it was fine, that it was okay to be tired, to not want to stand up or do much of anything. Besides, Cas had his own agenda.

 

He walked over to the coat closet, checking behind him to make sure that Dean hadn't woken up, and slowly forced the doorknob to turn. The wood would swell, making it stick. There'd been a soft pop, and then the sighing groan of old, unoiled hinges. He'd seen Dean standing in it, just staring between the closet when he'd though no one was looking. Cas slowly pushed the hangers aside, lifting them ever so slightly so that they didn't screech along the metal bar, and his mouth twisted into a surprised grimace. 

 

Maps. They coated the entire back wall, red lines of string crisscrossing from place to place, the name _GORDON_ scrawled in black sharpie marker at every spot they connected. Dean stirred behind him, and he dropped into a low crouch, heart beating in his ears. He waited for a minute, but no other noise greeted him. Just to be on the safe side, he quickly slid the coats back and shut the door, pulling his parka out through the crack. He sat down on the floor, and then stretched out his legs, using the hood of the parka as a pillow. His eyes fluttered, the warmth from the sunlight streaming through the windows making him sleepy. He'd stared at the ceiling of the cabin for about an hour, stories and memories flitting through his head like a switch that he couldn't turn off. Eventually, he let his eyes close, mind still racing, and begged for sleep to come. Anything that would've gotten him away from his own brain.

 

Cas opened his eyes. He was standing above a bag. He knew that bag. That was what he used to use as a drug runner in the homeless system. Somehow, his fingers were hooked underneath the strap of the bag and he gently backed up, dragging it so that it scuffed lightly against the stone floor. Taking one last look at the sleeping form, cuddled into the sheets, he'd quietly turned the lock on their room door, walking outside.

It was freezing. Snow, at least a foot deep, covered virtually everything in sight, blanketing the world in white. Cas sighed, and shouldered the door closed, and re-locked it, pocketing the moose-shaped key. He lifted the duffle like a backpack, trying to get the strap up and onto his shoulder, but it was so heavy that he actually had to lean against the wooden post of their small front stoop in order to do it. Pamela was gone, no one in the office, but Cas couldn't see any footsteps leading away from the door. He was pretty sure he knew what that meant, but he didn't care. They were getting out of Canada today, and Cas was gonna make sure of it. He started through the snow, hoisting one leg in front of the other, feeling like a man trying to walk through maple syrup. It was tough going, the bag slipping from the sweaty shoulder of his bright purple jacket, but he made it eventually, the parking lot slightly plowed, but before he could take a step onto the asphalt, something tapped the back of his neck.

"I want the bag, Castiel." The blood drained from his face, and he stiffened.

"Shove off, Raphael. There's nothing in it."

"I don't think that's true." The scent of pastrami wormed it's way into Cas' nostrils, and a scruffy beard rubbed the back of his neck.

 

Cas reacted. He probably shouldn't have, in hindsight, it was really stupid, but he was frustrated. The knife in his attacker's hand flew to the side, skittering across the icy parking lot. Cas' fist ached, but he'd been relatively proud of himself. He hadn't really hit anyone since his last stint in jail, which was, incidentally, where he met this gem of a person kneeling in front on him, hand pressed to his bleeding nose. The dude was _large,_ and not in a 'I eat too many burritos' way, more of a 'I bench-press 350 pounds' way. Raphael had a bomber jacket on, and it took Cas an adrenaline-pumped minute to realize that he'd been laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"You are." Raphael's hand fell from his nose, and he stared at it, as if perplexed by the red stain on his skin. "But good right hook. I see you've kept up with some of the skills I taught you back in the cage."

Cas' mind went blank. That's what the other people in his cell block used to call Juvie. The 'cage'. 

"You want it? You can have it. Just leave me alone. I'm done. I want out." Raphael stumbled to his feet, glaring, and smirked.

"Doesn't work that way, Cassandra." And as Raphael fell forwards, Cas reached into his pocket. The only sound it made was a wet _schlunk_. Raphael made a wheezed groaning sound, and his progress towards Cas slowed as he sagged forwards, Cas' body now supporting his weight. Cas' knees buckled underneath the tremendous force, breath leaving him as his ribs were crushed-

 

Cas woke up with a start, coming out of it violently, both fists raised. He sat up ramrod straight, a shout forming on his lips. _I'd been dreaming. What the hell?_ He was on the ground, hands tangled in the parka underneath his head. He sat up again, and opened the closet, feeling around in the back for what he figured he'd find. His fingers stubbed against the end of it, and he had to keep himself from releasing a joyful shout. His nails hooked underneath the lid and he pulled it out. It was a shoe box, labeled  _ONGOING INVESTIGATION._ Cas quietly removed the lid, and was met with the smiling faces of a woman, a man and two boys outside of a beautiful house. He flipped the photograph over. On the back were the words: _John, Mary, big brother Dean and little Sammy in Laurence. 1966._

 

 _His family._ Cas turned towards the bed, and felt tears threatening. _Strong, Cas. Strong._ More pictures greeted him, but under that was a large, flat manila envelope, marked _FAMILY MURDER: WINCHESTER._ Cas frowned, but took the documents out.

 

It took him a good long while to get through it all, but once he had, he was met with such a profound sadness that he didn't know what to do. _Dean's entire family... gone. Just like mine._ Cas made a promise to himself that if Dean died before Gordon Walker, he'd hunt the sonofabitch down himself. Cas stood, knees cracking, and pushed the clothes aside again. Now it made sense, all the random markings, leading to Canada. That's where he was. 

 

"Dean?" Cas turned, and did a double take. The lighting was differ- "Sunshine? You up? It's almost-" Cas glanced towards the kitchen, eyes catching on the clock, and felt his heart stutter. "Nine." It was a whisper, and before he really registered what he was doing, he was moving forwards,  hands coming to rest at the edge of the bed. Dean was still breathing, eyes closed, but that's about all he was doing. No twitching muscles, which has been a regular part of life for the two of them for a while, no fluttering eyelashes, not so much as a _tremor_ for Cas to even have known if Dean'd heard him in the first place. Dean's face was childlike, his features pulled into something of a smile, even asleep.

 

"Dean." Cas didn't really register that his fingers were moving before they were pulling the blanket off of him. Dean didn't even move, didn't react to what must have been a sudden blast of freezing, January air. "Dean?" Cas' body moved, hands everywhere on Dean, pulling at the edge of his sleep shirt, shaking his hips, shaking his shoulders, but nothing seemed to have an effect on the 'sleeping' form. Something pulsed behind Cas' eyes, and he stumbled backwards, the doctor's words coming to him in waves. _'One of the last stages of his disease is going to be a coma. Make sure to watch for that. If he's anywhere away from home when the first one happens, take him back to his apartment and wait it out. If it lasts more than three days, take him to a hospital. Do not leave his side'._ Cas' legs began to shake. _He can't be in the last stages. Not yet. It hasn't been that long._

 

Cas shouldn't even be in Pennsylvania. He'd driven Dean in a rushed, caffeine induced panic of swerving and speeding and running stop signs. Nothing he did or said woke him up. Dean's breathing had increased in volume, loud rasps pushing through the air every fifteen seconds. Cas counted. He pulled out the flip phone that had been resting in his jacket pocket, and held it in shaking hands, practically driving the car with his elbows. He doesn't really remember what he'd said to the poor kid who'd answered, terrified and disoriented, but apparently it had worked, because there had been a murmured, ' _yeah, I can do that'_ that had echoed through the radio waves.

 

It took them half the time it did getting there, and through tear stained eyes, Cas pulled into Dean's apartment complex, cutting the engine of the Impala. He'd stumbled out his door, practically falling into the asphalt, and had held onto the side of the car for support, feeling his way to Dean's side. As soon as the supporting force of the door was gone, Dean's entire body sagged, and Cas reacted, hooking his arms underneath Dean, unbuckling him without really seeing what his hands were doing. Dean's face pressed against Cas' neck, and Cas' knees gave out, hitting the pavement, tearing the knees of his pants even more. He'd known, even then, bowed over Dean's still body, breaths rising and falling much too slowly, that he wouldn't be able to stay.

 

Cas gasped, a strangled version of Dean's name, and willed himself not to cry. Biting his bottom lip didn't seem to be helping to keep the burn of tears at bay, but he steeled himself, and picked Dean up, bridal style. It was much easier than he remembered it being before, which wasn't a good sign. Cas closed the door with his hip, carrying Dean the few feet to the apartment's entrance. He didn't even have to stop for support. He'd left the bags in the car and had taken the steps two at a time, Dean's head bobbing in the crook of his neck. The landing to the third floor came up quicker than he'd expected, and the door was already ajar. Ordinarily, that would've scared him, but considering that he'd had about six cups of coffee back in the cabin when he'd been trying to decide what to do about Dean, he was so jacked that his brain wasn't working right. Fortunately, the person responsible for the open door was Kevin Tran, his paramedic friend, and Cas all but threw Dean at him. Kevin gently laid Dean down on the sofa cushions, and Cas had stood back, hands cupped around his mouth. He vaguely remembers Kevin trying to calm him down, telling him to try and breathe, but Cas is pretty much positive that all that talking did absolutely nothing because the next thing he's conscious of is waking up on the floor the next morning.

 

Kevin stirred, and Cas blanched, not wanting him to wake up. He was pretty sure that Kevin had been taking care of both him and Dean for the past three days, but he couldn't remember. Kevin coughed lightly, then sat up straight, shaking his head and cracking one eye open. He scanned the room, watching Dean's sleeping form, and sighed. His gaze skipped over the dresser in the corner and the window next to it, finally settling on a sheepish-looking Cas, lounging in the doorway. "Uh, hi." He whispered, and Kevin was up and out of his chair so fast that Cas actually wasn't sure how he did it. Kevin's arms wormed their way around Cas' waist, surprising him, and Cas gently let his arms fall onto the kid's back. "I missed you too." Kevin sniffed.

 

"I thought he'd loose you, for a minute there." Cas frowned, face hidden from the mass of shaggy black hair currently pressing against him, and cocked his head.

"Why?"

"You were unresponsive  for three days." Kevin pulled back, grin breaking across his exhausted face. "But hey, you're back now, right?"

Cas dropped his eyes. "Wait, you _are_ going to stay with him, right?" He flicked his gaze up to Kevin's, and the look he got was all he needed.

"You looked in the shoe box, didn't you." Kevin nodded. "Damn it."

"So, what, he's a crime fighting, ninja mechanic?"

"Something like that," Cas' grimace was back.

"Where are you going this time?"

 

"Back to Canada. I'm sorry, Kev. I gotta get his stuff." But Kevin shook his head.

"It's not me you should apologize to. It's him." He pointed back into the room, and Cas felt tears start to well in his eyes. Kevin's glare dropped to the floor, and he nodded. "Well, hurry back. You two don't have much time left." And he walked back into Dean's room, sat back down and tried to shoot Cas a fighters smile. Cas sniffed.

"Take care of him, Kev. He- he means the world to me."

"Prove it."

 

Dean woke up two days later.

 

One eye cracked first, and he heard a slight gasp. He felt more well rested that he had in a long time, almost like he'd been asleep for weeks. One foot twitched, then the other. For some reason, he felt no pain when he stretched his arms over his head and yawned, blinking twice. It took a minute for his tired brain to process what he was seeing, but once he did, he was beyond confused.

"Kevin?" He was grinning, tears streaming down his face, a foot or two away from Dean, but Dean was almost positive it was him.

"Hey, Deano."

"Wh-why are you in Canada? Where's Cas?" Kevin's smile faltered, and his face got those tiny worry lines on it, right between his eyebrows.

"Dean, you're not in Canada. And Cas isn't here."

It took four hours. Four painful, angry hours for Kevin to tell Dean everything he'd missed and why and what had happened. "So yeah," Kevin finished, checking the time on the clock hanging behind Dean's bed. "Long story short, uh, Cas' a snoop, and so am I and you were in a coma for three days." Every word was like a punch. Dean's breath had started to have that weird wheezy thing happen to it again, and the blissful painlessness that had accompanied him since he'd first woken up was now gone, replaced with a stiffness and creaky way of moving.

"So you know about me, now. Fucking fantastic." Kevin's eyes snapped up from where they'd been watching, restless, as he bounced a knee.

"Why the sarcasm?"

"Because you know about me." Dean repeated, staring at him. 

 

"In case you didn't read that file thoroughly enough," Kevin opens his mouth and Dean holds up a hand, silencing him. "No, I'm not mad. I'm just saying, if you didn't, here's all you need to know about me: people befriend me, and then they die. That's it. End of story." Kevin cocked his head. "You want me to explain? Fine."

 

So Dean told him. About his mother's stabbing and her being lit on fire, then John being stabbed in the same manner and dying on a motel bed, miles from the only home he'd known. Then Sammy, gutted in an alley. Bobby, head injury, which he'd gotten trying to save John from the goddamn guy who'd killed him. Charlie, stabbed by the same fucking guy, and Dorothy, killing herself. With each new name, Kevin winced like he'd been punched. Dean trailed off at the end, staring blankly behind Kevin's head, waiting for the inevitable 'see 'ya'. 

 

Kevin's eyes widened, and he shook his head.

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Tell him?" Dean snorted, knocking his head back into the pillows. "What would I say? 'Hey, honey, everyone I've ever known, that has ever really meant something to me, has been murdered by the same guy, who's still at large? And I'm still looking for him?'? That usually doesn't work very well." Kevin laughed.

"Yeah, I guess not." Dean had a sudden realization.

"Hey, what's the date?"

"January 6th. Why?"

 

Dean remembers all of this, leaning against a wooden frame, staring at something on his kitchen wall.

 

Cas remembers all of this speeding down a highway, desperate to get home.

 

Dean stares at the receiver on the wall, debating whether or not he should break it.  _Goddammit, you stupid, stupid, sonofabitch. I told you he was dangerous._  There's a crumpled piece of paper in his hands, a note that Cas left him on the day he disappeared for Canada.

_Dear Dean,_

_Once I get back, (which shouldn't be that long from now), let's have dinner._

_Someplace nice._

_On Valentines Day._

_Deal?_

_Love always,_

_Your Angel_

He leans against the doorjamb in the kitchen, staring, and presses a hand weakly against his side, breathing having become increasingly painful since Cas left, almost as though he'd taken the oxygen with him. At least Dean knew his phone number, thanks to Kevin, but apparently, Cas has forgotten his. Four times. He's called four times, and none of them have been picked up. Dean sighs, and turns around, heading back to his bedroom.  


Cas looks down at the small object sitting in the cup holder, open to 'voicemail'. He presses play on the first one:

_Let's have dinner._

The second: _I know about your job, Cas. About the drugs. But I forgive you, angel. I do. Let's have dinner._

The third: _I saw you outside the apartment today. You didn't see me._

And the most recent one: _It's Valentine's Day, Cas. Let's have dinner._

Cas knows he should have answered all of them, but he couldn't. He couldn't make himself do that to Dean. That would kill him, especially considering what's happening now. Cas glances in the rear view mirror, the sunlight glinting off the glass making it hard to see, and can just barely make out the cop cars in the distance. He knew he should've been more careful. He knew it. Technically, it wasn't his fault. 

 

It had been in self defense. He'd gone up when Dean was still in a coma, intent on finding this Gordon guy. He'd scoured Dean's maps, shoe box, and the internet at the library. Eventually, he found it. A little motel near Niagara falls. So he'd shown up, a letter opener in his pocket, just to chat. Gordon had waned to do that for about three seconds. Then he'd asked Cas who his friends were, and in his unfiltered way, he'd said Dean Winchester. Gordon had tackled him to the ground, reaching for his throat with giant hands, and Cas had _reacted_ , fumbling in his pants pocket, and then Gordon was falling backwards, and Cas was twisting the handle, grimace set on his feature. He'd stood above the sonofabitch and watched him choke on his own blood, gold letter opener protruding from in between his ribs. Cas had disposed of the body in a rush, and now it was coming back to bite him in the butt.

 

Cas changes the gears in the stolen beige Chevy, speeding up slightly. His eyes wander again, drifting off the road and back down to the cup holder. With a shaking hand, he reaches down, and picks it up. He balances it on the steering wheel, keeping three fingers placed so that he can still sort of steer, and begins to dial.

 

Dean is sitting in stony silence, Kevin long gone, as pain begins to unfurl throughout his body. That's when it rings. The whole house is silent, almost like it knew, and when the first chime echos, Dean thinks he must be losing his mind. But then it chimes again, and again and before Dean can stop himself, he's taken off, pain long forgotten, and is falling against the phone, wrapping the chord  around his fingers.  


"Hey, sunshine."  


Dean doesn't even know what to say. He just stands, mouth agape, and holds a shaking hand up to his lips. After a few moments of sad silence, he clears his throat.

"You- you actually called back. I didn't think you would ever- I didn't think you wanted-"

"Of course I do, sunshine." Cas' voice breaks, and suddenly, Dean can hear sirens in the background of the phone call.

"Cas, are you o-"  


"Sunshine?" _He's crying, why is he crying?_  


Cas can see the bridge in front of him. The lights are flashing, telling him to freeze, because it's about to open up to let a ship through, but he doesn't care. The police won't follow him, and really, it's his only option, the cruisers catching up fast.  


There's a muffled yes on the other end of the line. Cas checks his rear view mirror again. _Shit._ "I think I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that dinner."

"That's okay." Dean's very obviously holding back tears. The sirens wail behind Cas' car, and he jerks the wheel, holding the phone tight against his ear. "We'll do it Thursday. Nine o'clock. On the dot."

"Some place nice?" Cas' bottom lip trembles between teeth, and he tries to hold back a sob, chest heaving in strangled breaths. Tears hold steady in his eyes, like good little soldiers, and he swerves again, catching the edge of his car on the dividing rail.

_"Slow down and pull over! Stop!" I guess this makes me look crazy guilty. Oh well._

"Of course." There's a wet laugh, then a long pause. All of Cas' senses are honed in on making the jump as the bridge begins to split for a passing ship.

"Good, because I wouldn't want to-"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Cas?" The buzz of static is all Dean gets in return.


	14. Lavender

 

_"Lavender was when everything started to go fuzzy around the edges. When sometimes, I thought I could hear your voice._

_But I guess I was wrong, because I would wake up, hands flying out to grab you, and you'd never be there._

_Lavender was when I thought I was losing my mind._

_It was there when I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to tell you to stop being so sad, wanted to tell you that I was going to be fine. I wanted to lie._

_The lies weren't lavender because they never left my tongue. In hindsight, I wish they had."_

_\------------------------------------------------------_

_\----------------------------_

_\------------------------------------------------------_

**March 1988**

 

Kevin comes into Dean's room, scrub slightly wrinkled, and shoots him a tired smile.

"Hey man,"

"Hey," Dean croaks, cough tickling the back of his throat dangerously, and sighs, wheezing. Kevin looks away. These days, he can't seem to keep steady eye contact with Dean for more than thirty seconds. It's not like he's disgusted by sick people or anything. He works at a hospital as a Physician's assistant, for crying out loud. But Dean's six years older than him, clocking in at only twenty seven, and here he is, stuck in a hospital bed for the remainder of his most likely very short life. That kind of thing really... puts you in your place.

 Kevin walks to the sink in the corner of the room, reaching into the cabinet above the spigot, and pulls out a pair of rubber gloves. He really doesn't want to do the exam today, but he has no choice. Dr. Kaycroft had said earlier that- that Dean didn't-

But Kevin shakes his head, clearing the thoughts that he doesn't want, and pulls one glove over the fingers on his left hand, flexing to get the glove to suction properly. He's sluggish with the other one, and catches Dean watching him in the mirrored cabinet handles. 

"I'm fine, Dean." Dean tries for a smile, cough tickling even more, and clenches his fists into his bed sheets nervously. Kevin pulls the other glove on completely, and lets the latex wrap reassuringly around his fingertips. "Now look," Kevin turns around, clipboard and pencil balanced between his fingers, aware of the way Dean's hands twitch, the way his eyes skip fearfully around the room, and Kevin knows how this is going to go down. He walks to the side of Dean's bed, sitting down in the metal chair next to it, and places his hands on the plastic rails of the gurney. "I'm going to ask you some questions. Okay?" Dean nods absentmindedly, staring at a spot on the yellowish wall.

"What's your name?" Dean cocks his head at Kevin, eyes refocusing briefly.

"Dean Winchester." Kevin checks the 'yes' box for the first answer. His paper has about nineteen questions on it, all with a 'yes' or 'no' box. It's used to make sure that the patient is competent enough to send home. Kevin has asked for this test everyday for the past two weeks. Granted, Dean won't remember that.

"What's your date of birth?"

"January twenty fourth, nineteen sixty three." _Another 'yes'._

"Where is your younger brother?" 

Dean's head comes off the pillow so fast, Kevin thinks he might give himself whiplash. Burning green eyes stare him down, and Kevin shrinks backwards into the uncomfortable chair.

"Why?" _He's terse. That's a good thing._

"Just answer the question, Dean." Dean rolls back so that his eyes face the ceiling, and Kevin thinks he sees a tear roll down his jaw. Dean sniffs, and mutters something, pulling the sheets up to his chin. "What was that?"

"I said he's dead." _'Yes'._

"How about-" Kevin stops writing and clears his throat, bouncing the pencil against the page so that little bits of graphite stain where the tip touches down. "What about Castiel?" Dean freezes, and his fingers start to match the snowy color of the bed sheets. 

"What about him? He's in jail. I guess. Or dead in Canada somewhere." _'Yes'. K_ evin just about kisses Dean. He puts the pencil back into the little hole on the clipboard and stands up, straightening out his scrubs. 

"Last question: Why are you here?" 

 

That fearful look comes back. 

"I think it's because-" But Dean cuts himself off, sunken eyes flitting through the room again, catching on the medicine cabinet and the blood-sample dispenser and the IV tube sticking out of his arm, feeding him nutrients. "I think it's because I'm dying." He whispers it, and looks up at Kevin with a heartbreakingly hopeful smile. "Did I pass?" 

"Y-" Kevin takes a deep breath, willing himself not to cry. Dean's childlike joy is a new thing for him, and Kevin thinks it may have something to with the fact that he knows he's probably not going to be around for very much longer, and wants to live what's left of his life with a positive attitude. "You did pass, Dean." Kevin hears him laugh lightly, wheezing at the end, and he turns around, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.

"Does this mean I get to go home, Kev?"

"Yup." Kevin digs his nails into his arm through the rubber gloves.

"Finally." 

And when Kevin faces front again, brown eyes watching with a somber quietness, Dean is already half asleep, a sated smile on his face. "I'll get to see Charlie." And then he's out. Kevin doesn't feel his tears start to fall, but knows they do because one of the nurses shoots him a weak smile through the window of Dean's room, and Kevin can't even muster up the facial strength to reciprocate. He slowly pulls the blue latex off his hands, the suction giving out, and moves roboticly to throw them away. Sighing doesn't relieve any of the tension in his lungs, but he doesn't care, just drags his feet to the door, taking a heaving breath. Dean looks so happy, so innocent, with his eyes shut against the harsh light of the room, but Kevin knows. Kevin knows that the simple fact that he can fall asleep in an instant is a bad thing.

"Come on, Cas." He murmurs to himself, gripping the metal doorway. "You're running out of time, man. Where the hell are you?"

Two weeks pass. Dean has been at home most of that time, and only had to be hospitalized for a day because he'd forgotten to eat. He lays in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, trying to work through the lavender shapes spiraling in the shadows. A bird coos outside his bedroom window, and he smiles. Something about knowing that he's going to die has changed his perspective on life. He's not afraid to exist anymore, in the small amount of time he has left to exist in. 

Kevin stops by every so often to check up on him, but that's becoming a rarer and rarer occurrence. Dean's glad for that. He doesn't want Kev to worry about him. Even though he always says he doesn't, Dean can see it in his eyes when he looks at him. Kevin is seeing the change to Dean's body maybe more than Dean himself. The once-godlike man now weighs about one hundred pounds, tops, when he should weigh about two times that much. His muscles are nonexistent, and he can barely even lift himself enough to go to the bathroom on his own. Dean embarrasses himself. 

He's dropped out of coaching. He couldn't stand for that long anyway. Let alone run.  

Benny hasn't been to see him in years. It's been two or three, maybe since he and Cas left for Canada.

 

 _Cas._ Dean's pretty sure he's dead. Or drugged up in some back alley. Sometimes, Dean thinks he hears his voice through the walls of the apartment, echoing and laughing, and he'll struggle to get his feet on the ground. He'll limp, from his bed to the door, a hopeful smile inching onto his features, brightening them in a way that they haven't been for a _very_ long time. But when his whisper of _'Cas?'_ inevitably goes unanswered, Dean will stagger back to bed, and pull the covers up to his chin. There's been times when he'll wake up in the middle of the night, lunging forwards with open arms because he'd been dreaming that Cas was just out of his reach, just over the ridge of a hill, and if he _just-_

 

But every night, his hands hit empty air. And he'll sit, staring at the sheets, until his spine can no longer support his weight, and he'll fold backwards, collapsing on the pillows, feeling his head go fuzzy again. Scratches of pencil on thick, creamy paper will worm inside his brain and sit there, and he'll try not to cry, lips trembling. Dean presses his head into his pillow, and breathes in the scent of home. _At least I'll die here._ And then he's asleep. It doesn't take much these days. Really just him closing his eyes.

 

Cas, meanwhile, is driving so fast he's pretty sure he's about forty miles _over_ the speed limit. But he doesn't care. After killing Gordon, mainly in rage, partly in self defense, he'd fled, trying to get back to Dean in time for that Valentines Day. But then the police had to show up. So he called Dean, had tried not to cry, and then tried to make the jump on the opening bridge. It hadn't worked. The back end of the car hadn't gotten over, and he'd fallen into the river below, hitting it roof first. He remembers sinking, and watching water start to fill the car. Within seconds, his head was submerged. His last thought was _I had a date._

 

But it wasn't his last thought. Not by a long shot. He'd woken up, handcuffed to a hospital bed. He'd sat up so fast that his heart monitor had actually jumped, and a nurse came in. She smiled at him. It was forced. There was a woman sitting in the chair across from his bed, and she too forced a smile at him.  "Good to see you're awake, Castiel. You and I have a lot to talk about."

 

She explained the situation. He was wanted for resisting arrest, but, more importantly, the murder of Gordon Walker. Cas had sighed, and laid back against his pillow. 

"I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble, aren't I?" His court appointed lawyer had nodded, unsmiling, 

"You sure are."

 

But it's been two years and change, and Cas is _free,_ speeding down a highway, and praying to every god he can think of that he isn't too late.

 

He wasn't jailed. Stuck in trials for about a year and a half, and then appeals for the last half, and finally, _finally,_ the judge liked his story. Basically, he'd said that he was just a boy from Philadelphia who went up to Canada for a holiday, had come back to his friend Gordon's house, and Gordon had flipped shit; had tried to stab him. Cas had grabbed the letter opener off the desk, and Gordon had landed on top of it when he tackled him. Technically, that was true. Minus the part about being Gordon's friend and grabbing the letter opener from the _desk._ He did grab it, just from his pocket. 

 

Cas swerves around a minivan, and the driver honks, slamming on the breaks. Cas can't give a rats ass even if he tried. The exit signs have started to read  _Phoenixville_ and _West Chester_ and Cas breathes easy for the first time in years. His five o'clock shadow has deepened, and most of the softness he'd had before is gone. Cas remembers standing over Gordon's mostly dead body, and smiling. It had been maniacal, and he'd known it, but he hadn't cared. He'd leaned down to Gordon's level, where he had a hand on his ribs, choking on his own blood as it bubbled up from his lips. Cas had pressed his mouth against the dying man's ear. "This was for Dean Winchester, you sonofabitch."

 

That kind of thing can change a person.

 

Cas whips the wheel to one side, and takes an exit on his right, pointing to Philadelphia. His darkened dashboard, someone's stolen car, reads _12:23 a.m._

 

Less then twenty minutes later, Cas peels into the apartment complex. The spare key isn't outside the apartment door, so he takes the long way. There's a trellis outside Dean's bedroom window. He remembers it, so he trudges down the three flights of stairs, goes out the front door and around the back of the building. Sure enough, there it is. And he starts to climb, one foot forcing itself in front of the other, until he makes it to the top. Cas grunts as he hoists himself over the windowsill, brushing off his hands. He hadn't realized he'd ripped the entire bottom of his pant leg off, but he doesn't care. Dean is laying about six feet from his entrance, still asleep, and Cas thanks whatever God is up there for that. His chest rises and falls, barely moving the sheets resting on top of him. Cas thinks that Dean's hair is wet, and hopes it's from a shower, but in the back of his mind, he knows it's not. He barely puts any pressure on the floorboards as he approaches Dean, nearly tripping over a discarded shoe.

Apparently he isn't quiet enough, because Dean stirs, and Cas freezes, watching. Dean rolls to the side ever so slightly, and his eyes fly open, a gasp of pain leaving his once-plump lips. He's shaking visibly, and Cas desperately wants to call out to him, to take his hand and tell him he's going to be fine, that all he has to do is breathe, but he doesn't think he has the will power to move. He's still in the shadows, but Dean flops back into the position he'd been in originally, laying spread eagle, head elevated by three pillows, and looks right at him. Cas feels his blood start to freeze in his veins.

"Cas?" It's sleepy, and kind of sad, almost as though Dean doesn't believe what he's seeing. Cas can't really blame him. He wouldn't believe it either if he were in Dean's shoes.

"Sunshine," Dean sits up in bed, and releases a hiss of pain that Cas just barely catches.

"Is that really you?" Cas is pretty much positive that Dean is in tears. Cas almost is too.

"Yeah, sweetness. It's me." He walks to the edge of Dean's bed, kneeling down, and takes his hand. It's icy cold, and Cas can feel the veins, much too close to the skin,  his knuckles pressing sharply into Cas' palm. He bites his lip, hard, keeping the sobbing gasp that had been building, at bay. Dean's other hand shakily pulls down the edge of the covers, and it falls on top of Cas'.

"Where have you been? It's been two years."

"I know," He whispers, head tilted to the ground. "I know. I'm so sorry, Dean." That same gasp that had been threatening comes out in a hiccuped groan, and he digs the fingernails of his right hand into the fleshy part of his wrist. "So sorry."

Dean's fingers move, the hand on top of Cas' left one migrating so that the freezing skin comes in contact with the bottom of Cas' chin, tilting it up so that he's forced to look at Dean, eyes shining in the moonlight.

"It's okay." He rasps. "I forgive you." Cas smiles the best he can, lips shaking, and just stares at Dean, whose eyes slowly begin to go unfocused.

"No, sunshine, no." Cas' arm is moving before he realizes that it is, and in a panicked motion, he grips Dean's jaw, turning Dean's head back towards his own. "Hey, keep those eyelids from closing. Come on, focus on me."

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Dean shakes his head and tries for a winning smile, only it comes off as more of a pained grimace. Cas sighs, and drops his fingers.

 

Kevin had said something about this. That the worse Dean got, the closer he got to the big flash of light and then nothingness, the more obvious his symptoms would become. That his breathing would pick up into raspy huffs instead of nice, smooth sailing, that his limbs would start to fail one by one, and that his focus on things would begin to falter, so that he wouldn't be able to stay in touch with reality for long periods of time.   
  


"How would you feel about ice cream?" Dean's head jerks, and his face actually lights up.

"Ice cream?" It's a childlike joy, and for a terrifying moment, Cas thinks he might start crying.

"Yeah, ice cream. I'll tell you everything that happened while we drive.  Sound good?" Dean nods, letting his body relax against his pillows. Cas watches quietly, thinking. The last time he'd seen Dean, he was still in a coma. _How much has he deteriorated? How much is his body failing now?_ Dean looks like he's fallen asleep, but Cas really hopes that that isn't the case. When he'd been out the first time, when Cas had left, Cas had figured that he probably wouldn't wake up. He'd asked Kevin about it, and he'd said that when Dean started to get really bad, he shouldn't let him just randomly fall asleep. "Alright. Can you still... walk?" Dean's face twists, and his eyes open.

"Not really." _Shit. Fuck, don't cry. Don't you fucking cry, you piece of shit._

"Alright." Cas tries for a smile. "Can I carry you?" Dean nods.

 

So that's how the pair leave the apartment, together for the last time. Of course, neither of them know this in the moment, they're just happy to be back with each other. For once, Cas feels like he's home. Dean smiles up at him, cradled like a bird with broken wings, and when Cas sits him down in his beloved car, Dean runs his hands across the leather. It's almost like he's trying to cement the feeling into his palms, before they shrivel and dry and he doesn't even remember his own name. Cas has to hold on to the door frame to keep his legs from collapsing.

"You okay?" Cas takes a deep breath, and ducks back into the car. 

"Yeah, sunshine. I'm fine."

 

During the ride, Dean cries, thanking Cas some of the time, and hitting him weakly with both fists, others. At the end of the retelling, Cas glances at Dean from the corner of his eye, and starts. He looks like he's had the world lifted off his shoulders.

"So you got him? The man that killed my family? You really got him?" Cas nods, eyes front again.

 

"I love you." Cas swerves.

"What?"

"I love you."

Cas pulls the car over. He turns off the ignition, takes Dean's thin face in his hands, and presses his lips to Dean's jaw. Dean takes a gasping breath, ending in a rattle. Cas pulls back, smiling.

"I love you too."

 

They make it to the ice cream place at _1:03._ The man behind the counter looks at Cas as though he's lost his mind, but gives Cas the opportunity to order anyway. Cas gets mint chocolate chip for himself and a vanilla milkshake for Dean. The man pays him his change, but Cas tells him to keep it. He gets a surprised smile in return.

 

Cas helps Dean out of the car, his sweat pants sagging off of dangerously skinny hips, and sits him down on the back hood of the Impala. Cas looks at him. Really looks. Dean's eyes are sunken into his head, black underneath, and his hair is mostly gone in the back. He's got virtually no visible muscle left, and that once strong jaw line is now weak and deflated. 

"I wish I didn't care." Cas almost drops the ice cream.

"What? Why?"

"I mean-" Dean presses against the car. "I wish I didn't have to keep glancing over my shoulder all the time. I wish-"

"That's liberosis." Dean smiles up at him, and Cas reciprocates, crows feet forming for the first time in years. "You want to know how I know all these words?" Dean nods. "Promise you won't laugh." He shrugs.

 

"I memorized the dictionary for fun as a kid." 

 

Dean laughs anyway.

 

Cas shakes his head, handing the milkshake to Dean, whose fingers are shaking against Baby's hood, skipping on the metal. Cas sags down next to him, and puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Dean sighs, lips wrapped around the straw. "You know I fixed this car up, after my dad beat it to shreds?" Cas stares straight ahead. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. And the reason the air condition rattles is because Sam and I crammed Legos into it." Dean laughs half heartedly. "Sam stuck an army figurine in the ash tray in of the doors." Dean sighs. "We carved our initials into the wood underneath the back seat."

 

Cas looks down then, setting his own ice cream next to him. 

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know how much it means to me. That way you can take care of it properly when I'm gone." Cas squeezes the arm around Dean's shoulders, bone poking him uncomfortably.

"You're not going to be 'gone'." Dean's gaze doesn't falter from the stop sign at the end of the parking lot.

"Yes I am, Castiel. I'm going to die. And you're going to live." Dean's tear-stained face looks up at him, then, and for the first time, Cas can see it. The fear. The venerability. "Promise me you'll try to live."

 

"I promise." Cas' voice is a rasp, but Dean smiles, and nuzzles into Cas' side. The milkshake slips from his fingers as they go limp, and it hits the ground at the same second that Cas' heart breaks.

"Dean?" He presses his hand against Dean's cheek, but he doesn't move. "Dean?" He's still, and when Cas steps back and kneels in front of him, hugging him close with sobbing whispers of 'I promise' tearing from his lips, he doesn't wake up.

 

"Not like this. He can't go like this. Not here. Not now. Please, god, no."

 

Three hours later, Dean wakes up. He's shaking so badly that his teeth are rattling, and he can see Cas in the corner of the room. Cas looks like he's asleep, hands over his face, curled forwards in a very uncomfortable looking chair. The back of his hair is tousled like he's been running his fingers through it all day. In a frenzie, Dean tries to sit up, to reach out because _Jesus, what if it's really_ _him, I have to-_ But finds that his body refuses to cooperate. He can't even make noise. So Dean just lays there, trying to figure out where the hell he is. There's beeping and the sound of running feet and- His eyes catch on the mirrored cabinet handles. _The hospital? Why?_

 

But he doesn't have much time to wonder. The door opens, and Cas' head snaps up like it's connected on a string. The woman in the white lab coat doesn't say anything to him, just shakes her head. Cas' eyes go from hopeful to filled with tears, and Dean wants to reach out to him, wants to tell him that he'll be fine. But in the back of Dean's mind, something is tickling, almost like the corner of wallpaper, that had been plastered over ghastly paint,  that's peeling. Before Dean gets the chance to pull at that corner, his back goes ramrod straight and his vision starts to go all fuzzy.

"What's happening to him?" 

"Call for the paddles. His heart rate is too high."

"De.."

But he's gone.

 

The next time Dean's eyes open, it's because a noise wakes him. A choked cry of sorts. There, at the side of his bed, is Castiel. Dean tries to cry out, to let him know that he's awake, because _God, it's been years_ \- But then Cas says something. Dean's eyes skip fearfully around the room, and freeze on the trash can in the corner when his muddled brain deciphers the phrases coming out from Cas' mouth. He sounds like he's been crying, all soft and muddled and breaking even more than usual.

"Is this how it felt for you, Dean?" Cas lifts his head, and _yup, definitely crying._ "Is this how it felt for you when I-" A hiccuped sob breaks from his throat and seems to catch him by surprise. He falls forwards, the grip on Dean's hand tightening, making Dean realize how cold he must be compared to Cas. "Oh god, Dean." It's murmured into his fingers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." 


	15. Black

 

_"So I don't really know what to say for this one._

_I never have, to be honest._

_I've known for a while that it was coming, but... I just didn't think it would be this soon. There were a thousand moments I had taken for granted. A thousand moments I wish I could have back. Mostly because I'd assumed there would be a thousand more._

_Sorry if you can't read my hand writing. I can't feel my fingers._

_Black. That's how you're going to feel the day that I die. Black. That gaping, gnawing hole in your chest that will seem to swallow everything around it like a never-ending vacuum._

_But you have to promise me: find someone else. Move on. Have kids, a wife, a 'normal' life. That won't be black._

_But if you do have to hold on to me, only keep this piece:_

_Remember I loved you, Castiel."_

\------------------------------------------------

\--------------------------

\-----------------------------------------------

**May 1997**

Dean died three days later. 

 

It was a Friday. Chilly, but with a crisp sun that shined with no clouds to block it. His favorite kind of day.

 

The actual time between when Dean was fully alive and fully dead is blurred to Cas. But those three days are in hyper focus. The first wasn't all that bad. Cas came into Dean's hospital room, adorned with only a vase of flowers, and the standby nurse, the same one who'd taken Cas and calmed him down after he'd run into the ER, carrying Dean and shouting for help, gave him a smile and stood up to leave. As she walked past, she pressed a hand against his arm.

"I don't think he's going to make it much longer. He's only in touch for about five minutes at a time." Cas felt his eyes filling with tears, but willed them away. She fixed him with a pitying stare. "I wouldn't wish this on anyone." He gave her a pained smile, squeezed her hand, and walked forwards.

 

At the sound of Cas' feet, Dean's eyes opened. He was shaking.

"Cas? Is that, is that really you?" The once beautiful voice sounded rough and distorted through swollen lips and a dry tongue. Cas nodded.

"It's really me."

"Where were you? You've been gone for two years."

 

So Cas retold the story, worry creasing his forehead because _I already told you this. Yesterday. Why don't you remember?_ He told it from leaving Dean in a comatose state to killing Gordon, to the fact that he memorized the dictionary. Every. Little. Detail.

 

"Cas, I know you didn't want to leave." His eyes were red, swollen, and Cas took his hand, warming it. The sweatpants on his thin form sagged, as did his jacket. There was an IV tube running down from the crook in his elbow, machines beeping, and Cas knew. Oh, he knew how this was going to end. "I know you did your best, and I'm s-sor-" A hacking cough broke him off, and Cas dropped his fingertips, reaching around himself for the water glass. But when he faced Dean again, there was a new light in his eyes, and Cas willed his tears away. Again. "Castiel? You, you came back! I thought you were dead. Oh my god, Cas."

Cas' eyes watered, and he did his best to smile, sniffing.

"I couldn't give up on my best man. Not when he still owes me a dinner."

 

The second morning rolled around, and Dean couldn't move his legs. One of the nurses told Cas this. Dean wouldn't even look at him. Towards midday, Dean wet himself. Cas was sitting up in bed, playing his guitar and singing The Way You Look Tonight,  even though Dean's eyes told him that he didn't recognize him. There were small moments, little slivers of clarity that would break the surface, only to be pulled down into the murky depths below. Cas noticed first, and calmly stood up from the bed, walking to the door. He'd flagged down a woman and told her, and she had smiled sadly at him.

"It's what they all do, towards the end. Make sure he's comfortable and doesn't feel too bad about it."

That was the day they fit him with a catheter. Cas is pretty sure Dean didn't even know what was happening to him at that point.

 

The last day was awful. Dean couldn't move any of his body parts except his fingers and mouth, and his eyes had this glazed look to them all day, as if he were in some other world entirely. Cas stayed with him. Nurses would pass in and out to change him and get him another IV bag, but they never said anything. All they'd do was stare at the man next to Dean, a man who was once soft and had to be forced to be hard because the only person that really mattered to him was dying right before his eyes.

 

Cas slept at the hospital that night. Something had told him that he probably should. But instead of sleeping in the chair, like the nurse said he should, he slept next to Dean, with an arm curled around his skinny waist, head resting against his back. Cas wasn't used to being the big spoon, but it appeared that Dean didn't really mind. He relaxed backwards into Cas, and Cas felt his breathing even out after only a few seconds. That's when he let the tears start to fall. He bit back his cries, trying to stop himself, but there was some sort of harsh reality, lying there, with his arms around the man he loved. Some sort of presence that his mind had to yet to decipher. And he couldn't hold it back. He soaked the back of Dean's coat, not really caring, and tightened his grip, hands balling near Dean's stomach.

 

Cas still remembers the moment when he'd realized the life was leaving Dean's body. He'd been asleep, restless, but with eyes closed, and he guesses that some part of himself, the part that had been attached to Dean, hooked into his very soul, had noticed the change in his breathing. Maybe Dean had made a noise. Maybe he'd cried out. Whatever the reason, Cas woke up. Somehow, he had made it into a chair, directly across from Dean, and his hand was holding one of Dean's, icy compared to his own. For a second, everything was still. Cas even breathed a sigh of relief. _Not yet._

Then Dean's monitors went haywire. 

Cas had fallen forwards, straight out of the chair, and against the bed rails. Dean's eyes were wide, fearful, and he tried to move his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a pained wheeze, drool easing down his chin. Cas did his best to smile, to keep him calm. He brushed his hand through Dean's sweat soaked hair, and climbed back in beside him, spooning his shaking form. The nurses started to pile in from outside, and a man with paddles pushed through them. Voices were yelling, but they sounded like they were underwater. Cas remembers looking down at Dean, watching him choking on air as his eyes went wide with fear and pain. The doctors had told Cas that when Dean died, _because he will die, Castiel, it's only a matter of time,_  it wouldn't necessarily be painful. More like surprising. That he wouldn't feel a thing.

 

But watching the light slowly dim in his terrified eyes, Cas was pretty sure they'd lied to him.

"I promise." He whispered. Dean's fingers jerked in response. " I promise to try to live. For you sunshine. I love you." Those eyes rolled around to stare at Cas. He smiled, and despite everything, his eyes remained dry. He started singing. " Some day," Dean choked. " When I'm awfully low," Cas brushed his hand over Dean's forehead. "When the world is cold," Dean tried to reach up to his face, eyes lighting up in a way that told Cas he remembered. "I will feel a glow just thinking of you," He took Dean's fingers, and kept singing. "And the way you look... tonight." Cas smiled, and skipped to the end. "Lovely, never ever change, keep that breathless charm, won't you please arrange it cause I love you, just the way you look tonight. Hmm hm, hmm hm." The last little bit of recognition left them. "Just the way you look... to...night."

 

_I promise._

Dean's breathing slowed.

_I promise._

The man with the paddles left, his shoulders dropping.

_I promise._

 

Cas stayed there until there was no sound in the room except his own breath. He stayed there until the nurses had to physically pry him off of Dean's still body. 

_I love you._

 

Only after the chaos has passed and Cas had come back to collect the remainder of Dean's things, the room empty, a fresh white sheet laid on the bed where his joy had spent his last days, did Cas see the note. It caught his eye, one disorganized thing in a sea of sterilization and pain. He crossed to the other end of the room, dragging his hand across the edge of the bed, imagining Dean's on top of his. Shaking fingers reached out and take the edge of it. The slanted scrawl was so messy and fractured that he had a hard time figuring out what it said for a minute. Then he tilted the page slightly, and the words seemed to click together. Cas' other hand went up to his mouth.

_"Dear Cas,_

 

_I miss you most at night."_

 

Cas had sunk to his knees, note crumpling slightly, and had cried, silent tears falling in big, fat droplets. They caught in his beard and they stained his shirt collar. His hands shook so badly he thought he might drop the note. But he never did. He just held on to it tighter, to the point where his thumb actually went through the the corner of the page. After a few minutes, Cas found that he was dry crying. So he stood up, cleared his throat, and willed himself, for the umpteenth time, to be strong.

 

Going back to the apartment hurt almost as much as it would have for Cas to watch Dean die a second time. It had been the day after the funeral. April, 1988. Cas came in through the front door, and was immediately met with the smell of _Dean_. But he didn't cry. He'd thought he might, even though his eyes remained dry when they watched the casket light up in a burst of orange and sear his skin. But apparently not. He walked through the living room, hands trailing across the back of the sofa, where the two of them had spent many a cold night together, tangled in the gray blanket that Dean had gotten as a college gift from Benny. He bumped into the door frame, the same one that his back had hit so many times, when Dean would kiss him senseless and then walk him to the bedroom, unseeing. Into the kitchen, where they used to laugh, arms wrapped around waists. It still smelled faintly of the burned remains of a pie Cas had tried to make years ago. Dean had laughed at the mess so hard he'd cried.

 

That had been the night that he'd first moved in with Dean, and he smiles, despite himself. They'd stayed up unpacking until three in the morning. The last thing out of the boxes was Cas' record player, an ancient thing that really didn't work quite right anymore, but he didn't care. He pulled out the track he wanted to listen to. His fuzzy pajama bottoms, plaid flannel, stuck to one of the floorboards. He ripped the hem of them. The song had started to filter through the room, and Dean had frozen, half standing, half sitting.

"Dance with me." Cas had murmured. Dean turned, raked his eyes down Cas' body, and put his hands on his bare hips.

"Why the hell not." 

 

 _Some,-_ They spun _\- day,_

_When I'm awfully low,_

_When the world is cold.-_ Dean pinched Cas' cheek. He blushed.

 _I will feel a glow-_ Dean picked Cas up. He still had the strength to back then.

_Just thinking of you,_

_And the way you look_

_Tonight_

_Yes you're lovely,_

_With your smile so warm,_

_And your cheeks so soft- "_ They are." Dean had whispered. Cas laughed.

_There is nothing for me but to love you,_

_And the way you look_

_Tonight_

_With each word, your tenderness grows,_

_Tearing my fears apart-_ Cas' arms wrapped tighter around Dean's neck.

_And that laugh_

_That wrinkles your nose_

_Touches my foolish heart- "_ It does," Dean murmured. Cas looked up.

_Lovely,_

_Never ever change - "_ I won't. I promise." Dean whispered. Cas winced. He would.

_Keep that breathless charm_

_Won't you please arrange it_

_Cause I love you-_ That's when Dean started to sing softly.

_Just the way you look_

_Tonight_

_With each word, your tenderness grows,_

_Tearing my fears apart_

_And that laugh-_ Dean spun Cas again, and he laughed lightly.

_That wrinkles your nose_

_Touches my foolish heart-_ Dean hitched Cas up so that his legs wrapped around Dean's waist.

_Lovely,_

_Never ever change._

_Keep that breathless charm-_ Cas nuzzled his face into the crook of Dean's neck.

_Won't you please arrange it_

_Cause I love you,_

_Just the way you look-_ Cas' toes were resting on Dean's feet. They were silent, nose to nose.

_Tonight_

_Hmm, hm_

_Hmm, hm._

 

_Just the way you look,_

_Tonight_

 

Cas made it to his old room before the tears came. There were his sketch pads, thrown haphazardly on the bed. His plants were withered and dead, but he was okay with that. That's how he felt, right then. He couldn't blame them for giving up, too. Cas felt wetness on his cheeks, and brought a hand up to his face, confused. It dawned on him that he was crying. He merely shrugged the realization off. 

 

Dean's old friends from the soccer team had come to the funeral. But none of them had wanted to go to the apartment to retrieve Dean's things. They all nominated Cas. He reminded himself that he was there for a reason, and slowly closed his room door. The walk down the short hallway, past the bathroom on his left and the opening to the living room on his right, seemed to take longer than it used to. He reached a hand out to the door knob next to him, and found that he could not turn it. The brass stuck to the palm of his hand, and eventually, Cas had to use both to open the door.

 

The musty scent of wood smoke and apples and leather hit his nose, and all at once, Cas' knees gave out. He hit the ground with a thud, arms coming to rest lightly in front of him. _Dean's gone_. The fingers of one of Cas' hands betrayed him, and he blearily realized that he'd reached into his own coat pocket and had pulled out the bottle of pills resting there. He'd stared at the orange plastic, kneeling on the ground just outside of Dean's room, and thought _why the hell not_?

 

But then something itched in the back of his mind. A memory. One of Dean's icy fingers wrapped around his own and Cas telling him 'I promise'. He looked at the pills again. Then he took the bottle and threw it. The little white capsules scattered on the wooden floor, and Cas felt a brief surge of satisfaction. He stood up, strength slightly renewed, and stepped into Dean's room.

 

It took him hours. There were only about three boxes worth of stuff in the house, most of it Dean's, but it took Cas _hours_  to get it all packed away. Maybe it was the sentimental value or maybe it was because he was tired or maybe it was because there was an aching hole next to him where Dean should have been standing, cracking jokes and poking his back just annoy him. Cas smiled despite himself. Once he got everything into those boxes, he started towards the door. But something told him to check one more time. _Just once._ It whispered. _It won't take long_. So he did. He'd gotten everything from his room and the dinning room, but when he got down on his stomach to feel underneath Dean's bed, his fingers stubbed themselves against something. 

 

Curious, Cas gripped the edge of whatever the thing was and pulled. It weighed a ton. But once it was finally out from under there, cobwebs starting to make a home along the edges of it, Cas heard his breath catch. It was a box. Nothing on the outside, other than the simple lettering of _Dean Winchester_. Cas carefully lifted the lid. It fell to the floor with a splat sound. Journals. Maybe ten, all of them leather bound. Cas reached in and took out the first one, blowing off the dust. _Maybe I should do it tonight_. It read. _Maybe I should just take Sam and leave_. 

 

The entries seemed to date back to when Dean was a teenager. Cas sat cross legged on the floor, letting the sun's shadows move past him, and read every single one. It was beautiful. The writing seemed to eb and flow like tides, and Cas could feel it pulling him in. The third journal started talking about C, a mystery boy that Dean had apparently seen at the college he worked at. Cas smiled. But the sixth book was where he stopped smiling. Dean had started writing down colors. Colors through the memories he and Cas shared. Cas brought a hand up to his face, reading the things the two of them had experienced through Dean's eyes instead of his own. It was breathtaking. Cas almost felt as though he could reach through the hazy fog between death and life and touch Dean's hand, keeping them tethered together. Dean stopped in the ninth book, the last page on black. Cas couldn't feel his tears streaming down his face.

 

The tenth book only had about three pages written in it, and Cas touched the letters. Throughout the journals, Dean's handwriting had become more erratic, showing his mental and physical decline. The last entry was so shaky, Cas could barely read it.

" _Dear Angel, (or C as I referred to you earlier),_

_I only learned a few big words, and they probably won't even match yours vocabulary._

_In a few days, I won't even remember them._

_But I know you'll understand this:_

_You're my wonderwall."_

 

Cas swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in his throat. He didn't bother looking back in the box. Not then, anyway. The page behind the last entry had been ripped out, and Cas fumbled in his pants pocket for a moment before pulling out the note he'd found on the bedside table at the hospital. He lined up the torn edges. They matched.

 

That night, after he'd taken everything to Baby, now his car, he went to a bar. In this bar, he met, or re-met a woman. This woman was named Hannah. Castiel had brought the entire box of journals in with him, and was sipping whiskey straight from the bottle as he read them again.

"Are those the notes your ex-boyfriend left you?"

 

And Cas knew what he wanted to say to the pretty, red headed bartender. That Dean was never an 'ex-boyfriend', that, technically, they never dated. He was an 'ex-something'. An 'ex-maybe'. An 'ex-almost'.

 

But he didn't say that. Instead he smirked at her. 

"What you would you do if I said yes?"

 

And that was how he met his wife. Cas sighs, hand slipping on the shoe box. It sits on his desk, staring him down. A piece of paper is crumpled in his hand, and his eyes are red. He doesn't remember starting to cry, but apparently, he had. He wipes a hand across his face, and picks up the heavy thing, sliding it under the spare bed in his office. 

"Honey? Are you alright?" Hannah appears at the end of Cas' hallway, smiling at him, one little, black haired girl balanced on her hip, the other clinging to her leg. Her wedding ring glimmers in the light from the afternoon sun, catching on the tips of her ears, where diamond studs rest comfortably. Cas sniffs, gently letting the piece of paper slip from his shaking fingertips.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine." He opens his arms, gets down on his knees and grins with shaking lips at his little girl. She detaches herself from her mother's leg and comes flying across the floor, slipping on the hardwood. She hits Cas like a human bullet, but he goes with it, swinging her into the air as her laugh echos through his office.

"Me next! Me next!" The second little girl is slightly more chubby than her older sister, and much younger, peach fuzz still coating her cheeks.

 

"Samantha, wait your turn." Hannah's voice has an edge to it, but it's warm. _She's happy_. Cas does his best to smile convincingly at his six year old daughter in his arms. _Am I?_

"No, it's okay, babe. I can take both." Cas bends down again, this time extending one arm, and his youngest, three years old, gives a shout of joy. Hannah smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, conveying worry, and once his daughter's head is turned towards the ground, hands reaching, he mouths an 'I'm okay, really' at her. That seems to do the trick, and her features lift into that beautiful physique that often gets him pats on the back when he shows up at the country club gatherings she frequents, the murmurs of 'hot damn, buddy'. The little girl drops to the floor, and then she too takes off, socks skidding, until Cas scoops her up in his other arm, both girls now clinging to his neck. "How was that, Sam?"

 

"Again! Again!"

"Me first!" The six year old pokes her younger sister from around the back of Cas' head. He laughs halfheartedly.

"Not yet, Gabbie. I have to do some job things first. Can you two hop down?" The girls give equal amounts of fuss, but eventually, Cas has them both back with Hannah, the promise of ice cream filling their heads.

Only after his family has disappeared to the kitchen does Cas turn off the lights in the office, shutting and locking the door. His shoulders sag, but he forces himself to smile, to create those crows feet that only made appearances when _he_ was still alive. Cas thinks back to the promise Dean had made him keep. The promise in the color black, and his spine automatically straightens. "I'm doing this for you, sunshine. My sunshine." And he walks away, hand leaving the doorknob slowly, fingers sticking to the metal.

The piece of paper spins on the office floor, collecting dust already. Cas had forgotten to put it back in it's original box, and it sits underneath his desk, next to one of the wheels on his spinney chair. The words seem to come to life in the dark room, burning through the paper.

 

_To the one who reads this next:_

_This is the last letter I think I'll ever get to write, so I'm not writing it to him. I'm writing it you. Chances are, you've read the other ones that were in these journals, seeing as how I put them in this box in a specific order._

_Anyway. The man I have written these letters to is very dear to me. God, he is beyond dear to me. He means the world and more. He's a hurricane to my dew drop, a supernova to my candle flame. But be gentle with him. Be loving. And please don't damage him at all. Not even a scratch. Or I swear, I will haunt your ass._

_All jokes aside, after losing me, he might be too broken to fix. Hell, the person reading this right now might be the coroner, coming to collect his body. I don't freaking know. But what I do know is that he will never get over that. He will never be 'fine'. Some part of him, and I'm not meaning to sound conceited at all, but some part of him will always be tied to me. Who knows. Maybe we were made from the same stars. But be patient. Be kind. Hold him when he needs it. And don't you dare yell at him for falling apart._

 

_Give him morning kisses, breakfast in bed, nice dates out and a loving home. He's seen enough shit in his life. Enough of life's goodbyes. He doesn't need or deserve any more._

 

_When he has panic attacks, or relapses, as much as you may want to scream at him, don't. It'll only make things worse. He hates that he can't control himself sometimes, and you pointing that out will only heighten his self-destructive behaviors. Instead, hold him close to you and whisper soothing things in his ear. Sing 'Just the Way You Look Tonight' to him. He used to do it for me._

 

_Always be the big spoon. It's his favorite sleeping position. Ride him with your eyes open, facing him. He likes to use your hair for handholds. Treat him like a king. He is a once-in-a-lifetime piece of artwork that very few, extremely lucky people get to have grace their lives. I would have given anything for one of those people not to have been me._

_Don't make fun of the fact that he memorized the dictionary. I think it's cute._

 

_All the two of us will ever be is an incomplete sentence- a half written story, finished without an ending._

 

_But you, you can end it. You can complete him._

 

_Please try to complete him._

 

_Treasure him. You never know when the world could rip him away from you. I never did._

_Sincerely,_

_The Man of Perfect Words_

_\--------------------------------------_

_\---------------------_

_\--------------------------------------_

_Hmm, hm_

_Hmm, hm._

_Just the way you look_

_Tonight._

 

 


End file.
